


Perseverance

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is a very patient man. Just as well, when it's so hard to get together with Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [second_skin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Persuasion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/381560) by [second_skin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin). 



> This started off as as a prequel and remix of Second Skin's _Persuasion_ , but has ended up much, much longer...
> 
> Note: The chronology of Series 2 is notoriously dodgy. This fic assumes that _Scandal_ takes place in April 2010-Summer 2011, _Hounds_ in Summer 2011 and _Fall_ in Spring-Summer 2012. There are spoilers for _Scandal_ and _Hounds_ in later chapters.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Small Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit).

"You can't help who you fall for," Greg's Nan told him when he was sixteen. "You can help what you do about it."

"So?" he asked.

"So if you get caught fooling around with Gary Parker, it'll break your mother's heart. Find yourself a _girl_ to bring home."

"I don't want–"

"You don't know what you want, at your age. You just need to sort yourself out."

***

He wished he'd had the guts to tell her that Gary and he would be together forever.  Though he'd have felt bloody stupid if he had, given that a fortnight later he caught Gary having it off with Julie Smith from the Co-op. It was the first time he'd realised that there were people who liked blokes _and_ girls. It wasn't the sort of thing anyone told you about in Weston-super-Mare.

***

"She'll break your heart, Greg," his Nan told him when he was twenty-four, after he'd brought Angela round to see her for the first time. "That sort of girl always does."

"What sort of girl?" he protested. "What have you got against Angie?"

"She had a boyfriend already when you met her, from what I heard," Mrs Lestrade replied, her shrewd brown eyes examining him. God, she was a gossip sometimes, Greg thought.

"She was about to break up with him anyhow. He was horrible to her. I'll look after her properly." They'd look after each other, he thought.  Angie had plans for them both.

She sat there looking disapprovingly at him, and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and said sulkily, "It's really serious, this time, Nan. We're gonna get married, soon as I pass my detective exams."

"She doesn't really love you, you know. She just thinks if you marry her it'll get her out of Weston. She was saying you might move to Bristol." She made it sound like another continent.

"Angie reckons she can get a job at the Old Vic; start being an usherette and then work her way up. She's always wanted to be in the theatre."

Mrs Lestrade gave an eloquent sniff to that, and said, "She told me her degree was in drama and English and now she wants to sell choc-ices?"

That was what it all came down to in the end, even though she'd never come out and say it. That Angela was being too big for her boots, needed taking down a few pegs.

"She's trying to make something of her life, that's all," Greg growled. "When I meet a girl who wants to stay in Weston, you say she'll never amount to anything. And when I meet someone like Angie you moan about her being stuck-up. Just coz she's been to college, got some ideas in her head."

"I just want someone who'll make you happy," his Nan said, and it was all Greg could do to stop himself from swearing.

***

Given that his Nan disapproved of him getting involved with boys _and_ people with ambitions, it was probably a good thing she was no longer around when Greg met Mycroft Holmes.

***

He met him in the summer of 2009 during the Phelps case. Somebody had stolen files from the Foreign Office and an idiot called Percy Phelps had insisted on contacting Scotland Yard. Where that equally idiotic DS Forbes had recorded it as a crime, which meant something had to be done about it. What that meant, in practice, was dumping it on DI Lestrade, even though it wasn't a murder. Because they were at that point in the year where somebody had noticed his clear-up rate was too high and decided that it needed to be brought down so he didn't make his colleagues look bad.

It was absolutely no surprise to Greg that three hours after the case landed on his desk he got summoned by the high-ups to meet some bigwig in Intelligence. Some upper-class bloke in a fancy suit who was doubtless going to tell him that this mustn't be investigated, that there would be a diplomatic incident if it was. He knew the score by now about the crimes that no-one was allowed to deal with properly.

***

The upper-class bloke in a fancy suit was tall and dark with a beaky nose and no name, and he sat in the Assistant Commissioner's office and asked, with a smug smile, "I wonder if I could talk to you in private, Inspector?"

At least he had the decency to do his strong-arming out of the sight, Greg thought, because this was going to be humiliating enough as it was.

"OK," he said, and waited while the AC enthusiastically did a runner. Greg slouched back in his chair once the door was closed.

"Well?" he asked, staring up at Fancy Suit. He wasn't going to _volunteer_ to take the flak. "What do you wanna tell me?"

"You want to solve this case, don't you?" the man said. "Despite the fact that you know you'll almost certainly not be allowed to talk to the people who matter. That evidence will be concealed from you, that you will be lied to and misled." His voice was smooth, casual.

"I'm a copper, Mr–"

"Mycroft."

"Mr Mycroft. I see a crime, I want to solve it. Nail the bastard who's breaking the law. However important he is."

"That's why I chose you, DI Lestrade. Well, one of the reasons I chose you." The smoothness of the voice had a hint of menace now. The man might be a stuffed shirt, but it was probably stuffed with razor blades.

"Chose me?" Greg asked warily.

"I want this matter dealt with," Mycroft said, folding his arms. "Percy Phelps has been set up to take the blame for this theft. He's an old school friend of mine and I believe he's being blackmailed in some way. You have around forty-eight hours, I estimate, DI Lestrade, to find out who the real culprit is."

Beneath the tone of command, there was something strangely like need there. Greg opened his mouth to say, _That's impossible_ , and somehow, what came out was:

"I'll do my best."

***

The frustrating thing was that it _was_ impossible. Certainly in that kind of time frame. When Greg tried to see the scene of the crime, the bit of the FCO concerned told him to FO. Phelps himself gave the impression of being just about to have a nervous breakdown, and he didn't dare question him for too long. Phelps' boss was no use either. There would be something, he knew it. If he could keep plugging away, he'd crack it eventually. But forty-eight hours had never been realistic. He was going to have to let Mr Mycroft know that as soon as possible.

***

"Have you made any progress?" Mycroft enquired, at lunchtime the next day, in between sips of his latte. They were sitting in some upmarket cafe, where even a cheese sandwich required a three line description on the menu. Greg wondered whether the man didn't have an office of his own or if he simply considered that Greg would lower the tone if he took him there.

"Not much," he said, looking down at his own black coffee. He felt strangely uncomfortable about the whole situation, as if he'd somehow let Mycroft down. "Maybe Phelps is being blackmailed; he's certainly very worried about the theft. But there's nothing obvious he might be in trouble about. No particular financial worries, judging by his bank balance. And his personal life seems straightforward enough. He said he was engaged, and about to marry a woman called Andi Harrison."

There was an almost imperceptible sigh from the other man that brought an odd echo to Greg's mind. It was the way Sherlock Holmes sounded when he was disappointed in you. Sure enough, when he looked up, there was a familiar disdain in Mycroft's eyes. _He thinks I'm an idiot, doesn't he? What have I missed?_  He thought back frantically for what seemed like forever. And then "old school friend of mine" and "Andi Harrison" abruptly collided together in his brain.

"Phelps didn't say he was getting married to a woman," Greg said slowly. "He said he was getting married, but what he meant was a civil partnership, with a man called _Andrew_ Harrison. I got the wrong end of the stick, and he didn't want to correct me. Because he's sort of out, but not entirely." He paused and Mycroft gave a quick nod of his head. "Could he be being blackmailed about that? If some of his family or his colleagues didn't know about him being gay?"

"Percy's been half out of the closet for years," the other man replied quietly, and Greg found himself wondering if _he_ was in the same boat. "It's not a problem in the Civil Service as long as one behaves oneself."

"Then we've got nothing," Greg said in despair. "I mean, we can investigate some of his colleagues, see if any of them are in need of money or have foreign connections, but it'll take weeks, to be honest. And you said this matter was urgent."

"It is. So you have no other suggestions?"

He'd been tested and found wanting. He didn't know why it stung, but it did. Why did he feel the need to impress this politely dismissive, over-clever man? And then he saw what he had to do: because what mattered was solving this problem, not his own ego.

"I can't help you, but I know a man who might be able to," he said. "A private detective."

Mycroft said nothing, just sat there watching him, as if this was some kind of card game and for some reason it was still Greg's turn.

"His name's Sherlock Holmes," Greg went on. "You won't have heard of him, but I can give you his phone number."

"What kind of man is he, this Mr Holmes?"

Greg took a swig of his coffee and tried to think how you could explain about Sherlock. Better give the warnings in advance, he supposed.

"Impossible," he said. "Arrogant, rude, bloody-minded. He's also more brilliant than you'd believe possible. The way he can _read_ people."

Mycroft still just kept on silently looking across the table at him, with an air of calculating something. And somehow – fuck it – Greg hadn't given the right answer. Because doubtless when Sherlock Holmes was involved, two plus two added up to minus six. _No_ , he suddenly realised _. I gave the right answer, but to the wrong question_.

"You asked what kind of man Sherlock Holmes was," he said slowly. "That's a funny sort of question to ask. The wrong question."

There was a quirk to the other man's full lips now that suggested a smile, but he still said nothing.

"You should have asked how good a detective he was or how much he charged. Or even said that Sherlock Holmes is a strange name. You didn't, because you've already heard of him."

The quirk of Mycroft's lips was definitely a smile by now. An ironic smile, of course, the patronising bastard. Because there was something more, there had to be. With Sherlock's skills and his background – clearly been to a fancy school – once the spooks had spotted him, they'd have wanted to make use of him.

"You tried to recruit him," Greg said. The posture of the man opposite him stiffened, and he added triumphantly, "And he told you to piss off."

"You have a certain instinct, don't you, inspector?" Mycroft reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card, which he slid across the table. On it, there was nothing but a phone number and the name _Mycroft Holmes_.

"A relative?" Greg asked angrily, wondering if there was some resemblance he should have spotted.

"Sherlock's brother," Mycroft replied, and Greg stood up, glaring across the table.

"Then sod off and stop playing stupid games. I've got a case to solve."

"Sit down, DI Lestrade," Mycroft Holmes replied, picking up his card, and for some reason Greg did so. "I said I chose you for two reasons. The first one is that you don't care whose toes you tread on to solve a case. The second one is that Sherlock's prepared to work with you." Mycroft paused, and then added slowly. "He normally refuses to help me. That's why I'm asking you to act as my intermediary with him."

"He'll guess you're behind this, if the case concerns the Foreign Office." He wondered exactly what Mycroft did. Had he actually said he was working for British Intelligence or had that just been implied?

"I'm not asking you to conceal my involvement," Mycroft replied crisply. "Merely to come with me to Montague Street and talk to Sherlock."

"Then why the fuck didn't you ask me to do that in the first place? Would have saved a hell of a lot of time."

"I hoped I wouldn't need to." Beneath the polish of Mycroft's facade, there was something bleak now. "Sherlock exacts a high price for any advice to me. You may think he's difficult to deal with as a consultant, DI Lestrade. You have no idea how antagonistic he is as a brother."

***

Sherlock leaned back into the few inches between his chair and the piles of paper filling up the floor of his bedsit.

"Percy Phelps is one of your ex-boyfriends, I take it?" he asked Mycroft. "That's why you're _interfering_ in this matter."

"Didn't think you were homophobic," Greg growled.

"Adelphophobic, perhaps," Mycroft said smoothly. "An irrational hatred of brothers. Sherlock resents me having a personal life, in contrast to himself."

Greg sighed. For two such clever men, they went in for some very childish insults. "Mycroft didn't reckon he was being blackmailed for being gay, so I don't see it's relevant."

"You have no idea what may be relevant," Sherlock announced. "So the scene of the crime is blocked off to us–"

"–I am _trying_ to negotiate on that," Mycroft broke in.

"Phelps is in a state of collapse and Lestrade obtained no useful information from him," Sherlock went on. "You have no other suspects and you suspect the stolen files will soon be unrecoverable. Excellent. I like a challenge. How did Phelps contact you, Mycroft?"

"Via e-mail."

"Personal e-mail, of course, he'll have been denied all work access as soon as he came under suspicion. I need his e-mail address, a photo of him and details of all his overseas visits within the last ten years," Sherlock said, pulling out a laptop from underneath a pile of books and plates. He looked up at Mycroft. "Now would be handy. Or whenever you can be bothered to assist with the matter."

***

Greg sat on the hideously uncomfortable sofa, trying to work out where Sherlock had hidden the drugs in _this_ flat, and wondering why he had been brought along. Probably because Sherlock wanted an audience, or would at some point in the afternoon. For now Sherlock was just sitting staring at his laptop muttering incomprehensibly, while Mycroft ran through an entire repertoire of glares at him. Well, most of the time Mycroft was doing that. Every now and then he seemed to be scrutinising _Greg_ rather intently.

He was probably doing that thing that Sherlock did sometimes to show off. Deducing what was on Greg's mind without Greg saying a word. Always slightly unnerving, that. The alternative, which was maybe more alarming, was that it wasn't his _mind_ Mycroft was thinking about. Greg had been checked out by quite a few blokes in his time, but not so many recently, now his hair was started to go grey. Normally it was just a bit of harmless fun, but he wasn't sure that fun and Holmeses really went together. Better concentrate on what Sherlock was up to.

About three-quarters of an hour in, Sherlock looked up from his laptop and exclaimed, "Yes!"

"What you got?" Greg asked eagerly. Mycroft was trying not to look interested.

"In 2000, Phelps was working in Washington and dating a man in Boston," Sherlock said.

"Do I wanna know how you found that out?"

"A man who wants to keep his private life private shouldn't provide links between different user names," Sherlock said. "Phelps returned from the US in 2003, but made several personal trips out there again. The last one was in early 2005. He's not been to the States since."

"Four years ago," Greg said. "So he was possibly involved with this American bloke for a while, but then broke it off."

"Not simply an American," Sherlock said. "A resident of Massachusetts."

"And?" Greg said, wondering if Massachusetts gays were particularly vicious after a break-up.

"Oh, of course," Mycroft said, as if he'd suddenly been switched on. "But surely Percy would have realised the legal position?"

"The marriage wouldn't have been recognised in most of the US. Probably didn't occur to him it was in the UK," Sherlock replied. "So are we looking for Phelps' solicitor? I take it the man himself couldn't have got access to Phelps' office."

"The Foreign Office has its weaknesses, but they don't let random people wander in to their offices. Not even Americans," Mycroft replied, smirking. "I suspect the UKBA are to blame. They normally are."

It was worrying how the brothers were suddenly on the same wavelength, Greg thought. Especially since he had no clue what they were on about.

"Care to explain?" he asked, looking from one posh, clever git to the other. How had he ever missed the resemblance between them?

"Massachusetts was the first US state to legalise same-sex marriage," Sherlock said. "In 2004."

 _Wonder if he knew that all along, or he's just very good at Googling things,_ Greg thought, and then it registered:

"So you reckon he married this bloke in Boston and then...he didn't get divorced? He was lining himself up to be the first gay bigamist?"

"He may not have realised that he was already regarded as partnered by English law when he proposed to Mr Harrison," Mycroft replied.

"But then his American husband turned up and started blackmailing him?"

"Of course not," Mycroft said, with a dismissive gesture. "It would have been straightforward for Percy to obtain a divorce if he knew the location of his husband. The problem was doubtless that someone he approached in this country for legal advice saw the opportunity to make him a scapegoat."

"Someone just comes to his office to talk to him about that and then nicks his files while they're at it?"

"They were paper files," Mycroft says. "Standard procedure to print out any valuable document for the archive, means that no administrative assistant can accidentally delete all your data with a single misplaced mouse click. What I suspect happened is that Percy's visitor walked off by mistake with the files as well as their own paperwork, and then realised they'd hit the jackpot. Percy would doubtless be desperate to cover the whole episode up until the divorce was finalised."

"An opportunistic theft. So whoever it is might well be holding onto the files, not knowing who to sell the information to?" Greg said.

"That's a good point," Mycroft said thoughtfully, and Greg couldn't help smiling. "There are only a few men in London who might be willing to pay for such one-off material. Well, a few serious players. There is one young Irish idiot who fancies himself selling secrets, but he's a small fish in a very big pond."

Mycroft started tapping away on his phone and, after a few minutes, announced, "Our best bet is Hugo Oberstein of 13 Caulfield Gardens, Croydon."

"I'll need some evidence to apply for a search-warrant," Greg said.

"No need for that. I think we should pay a little visit on Mr Oberstein," Sherlock said, jumping up and reaching for his coat.

" _Croydon_?" Mycroft enquired, with the air of a man who clearly regarded anything outside Zone 1 as hostile territory.

"You don't have to come."

"I'm not letting you near confidential papers on your own, Sherlock. I remember about the naval treaty."

"If we all three go," Greg said, "then if we do need to arrest anyone, I can do it. But try not to do anything particularly illegal while I'm watching."

He didn't like the smile he got back from _either_ of the brothers at that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's off to the house of a suspected spy with Sherlock and Mycroft. The consequences are unexpected.

Mycroft's car dropped them off a couple of streets away from Caulfield Gardens. When they reached it, they found a cul-de-sac full of unremarkable 1920s semis; Greg could see Sherlock's eyes flick around as he considered their next move.

"No obvious way in at the front," Sherlock said. "Well, not without disturbing the widow at no. 11."

"Surely her husband's in a care home rather than dead?"Mycroft replied.

_Not even going to ask_ , Greg thought. "I can call at the house and say we're doing door-to-door enquiries, if you like. Provided I've still got my warrant card."

"Oh, I don't think we need any official presence here..." Sherlock said, heading around to the side of the house. Greg followed him to where a doorway with a wrought-iron gate led onto what was clearly some kind of back garden.

"Just a friendly call on a neighbour to tell him his roses need pruning," Sherlock went on. His gloved hands brushed against the gate, and suddenly he was reaching up. A few deft moves and he was six foot off the ground, climbing _over_ the gate, and disappearing into the garden.

_Shit_ , thought Greg, hastily trying to work out where Sherlock had found footholds. Yeah, it might be possible, he supposed, but it wasn't going to be easy. And then Mycroft came to stand beside him, drawing leather gloves onto _his_ long-fingered hands.

"Do you need a leg-up?" Greg asked, wondering if he could possibly manage to get them both over. Mycroft was tall enough, but he didn't exactly look like the athletic type.

Mycroft gave him an odd, lingering look, as if he wasn't sure exactly what Greg was suggesting. And then he smiled and said, "I prefer not to climb. But sometimes you find that side gates are merely latched, not locked. If you could ring the doorbell, please, Inspector, let Mr Oberstein know he has an unexpected visitor?"

"Call me Greg," Greg muttered, hurrying off to the front door. It seemed tactless to be reminded he was a police officer when they were breaking and entering. Sure enough, when he returned a minute later, the gate had mysteriously given way to Mycroft's touch. Yet another light-fingered Holmes bastard: Greg blamed the parents. Then he heard shouting from the garden.

"Could be a breach of the peace," Mycroft murmured. Greg started to run, because Sherlock himself was practically always a _sufficiently real and present threat to the peace_ to justify being arrested. No surprise, when he got round the corner to find a tall blond man with a beard trying to strangle Sherlock, while Sherlock ineffectively tried to sweep the man's legs from under him. Greg looked round quickly. No-one else visible, so it was three to one. No, two to one, because Mycroft was heading for the back door, ignoring his brother's plight. Up to him to rescue Sherlock, then.  He pulled out his handcuffs and ran towards Sherlock and Oberstein – or whoever he was – trying to work out how best to restrain Sherlock's attacker. He reached up for the man's arm...

It was then, of course, that Sherlock finally managed to trip his opponent, whose flailing elbow whumped firmly and painfully into Greg's face.

***

Sherlock got the cuffs on the blond, who was indeed Oberstein; Mycroft dialled 999. Greg told a sulky but unresisting Oberstein his rights, his voice muffled by holding Mycroft's handkerchief to his face. If this bloody nosebleed would just stop...

The problem was, if the nosebleed did stop, he'd then feel obliged to take some notice of the fact that both Holmeses had disappeared inside the house and were probably ransacking Oberstein's papers. He was relieved when Sherlock, at least, soon re-emerged.

"Where's Mycroft?" Greg demanded.

"He left by the front door," Sherlock said. "With the Foreign Office files."

"That was risky."

"No-one ever pays attention to Mycroft when he hasn't got his umbrella with him. He's just a nondescript irritation in a suit. You pass fifty of him on the street every day. Selling solar panels or discussing your tax details."

There spoke a man who was smug about his cheekbones and fancy coat, Greg thought savagely.

"Mycroft said it was up to you what Oberstein was charged with," Sherlock went on. " _He_ seems to trust your judgement."

"You'd better bugger off as well," Greg muttered in reply. He removed the handkerchief cautiously. The bleeding seemed to have stopped now, but he was still a mess. "If you're here when the Croydon boys come around, you'll be sure to get arrested." It was every copper's natural urge within ten minutes of first meeting Sherlock to charge him with _something_ , if only being an annoying git in a built up-area.

Sherlock smiled a self-satisfied smile that probably meant he had nicked something from no. 13 that Mycroft had missed, and wandered off. Greg stood around watching Oberstein, wondering what it was best to do now. Why had Mycroft phoned the police anyhow, if he didn't want Oberstein arrested? Perhaps in case any of the neighbours raised the alarm. But the Croydon police seemed a bit dozy today.  Twenty minutes at least since the 999 call had gone in.

"What's the deal?" Oberstein said abruptly, levering himself up from the wall he'd been leaning against. He looked more alert now the Holmeses had gone; Greg hoped he wasn't going to start anything.

"What deal?"

"You're undercover, aren't you? Working with the Security Service?"

"I'm just the poor bloody CID," Greg said.

"I didn't expect to see Mycroft Holmes here. Thought he had bigger fish to fry."

"He's important, is he?" He'd presumed Mycroft was something big, but he hadn't known exactly what.

"Let me off and I'll tell you what I know," Oberstein said.

"You can start by telling me who gave you the files."

"A man calling himself David Smith. There's a contact number on my mobile, but I expect Holmes has walked off with that as well. Smith won't know what's hit him when he gets traced."

Greg thought for a moment and then went over to Oberstein, reaching behind the man to uncuff him. As he did so, he said rapidly, in a low voice:

"I was coming round to talk to the owner of the property. Got here, found the side gate open, and a struggle going on. You and some other bloke having a brawl. He punched me in the face and scarpered when I got here, but I managed to arrest you. It was only at that point that I realised that you were the owner of the property and he was a sneak thief, trying to nick your garden tools."

He gave a long look into the heavy, shrewd face of the other man.

"I'm very sorry about that mistake, Mr Oberstein. You didn't get a proper sight of the thief, did you?"

"He had a grey hoodie on, I could barely see him," Oberstein replied promptly. "Tall, thin, youngish. White, I think. I don't know more than that. I'm sorry, I'm a bit shocked." He sounded alarmingly convincing as a put upon victim. Till he suddenly added, "Officially, Mycroft Holmes is part of the liaison team between MI5 and the CIA."

"And unofficially?"

"From what I've heard, he runs both of them. He practically runs the country. If I'd known he was involved I'd never have touched the files. I don't tangle with the big boys, sir. More than my life's worth."

***  

Greg managed to slide away pretty quickly once the local plods arrived; they were obviously glad to see the back of him. He headed in the vague direction of East Croydon station, but he'd only got a few streets away from Caulfield Gardens when a large black car pulled up beside him.

"Do you need a lift?" Mycroft enquired, as the passenger window glided down.

"I thought–"

"I prefer to keep a low profile on these occasions, but you surely couldn't imagine I would abandon you in Croydon."

Greg smiled and climbed into the car.

"Besides," Mycroft added. "I think you might alarm some of your fellow passengers. I have some antiseptic wipes, if you'd be more comfortable with your face clean."

_I still look a bloody mess, do I?_  Greg took the wipes and started to try and get the dried blood off his face. Stupid way to get himself hurt; no heroism in a nose bleed. Though at least it didn't feel like his face had been seriously damaged.

Mycroft pulled out another wipe.

"There's still a bit of blood on your left cheek," he said calmly. "If you'll allow me, Greg?" His hand, patiently rubbing away at a particularly stubborn patch, was warm and oddly soft. "Make you look rather more respectable."

"Yeah, but my shirt's a wreck as well," Greg replied. "And it's a new one. My wife's not gonna be pleased."

Mycroft blinked and his hand stilled for a moment, before resuming its operations.

_You must have worked out I was married_ , Greg thought, _you know everything._ But up close there was something assessing in Mycroft's dark grey eyes now, as if trying to analyse a difficult problem. Greg found his heart beating just a little bit faster.

"That should do it," Mycroft announced, straightening up. He leant back into his side of the car and then looked across at Greg and said smoothly, "I should probably get you a new shirt as well. Or at least my department should. We have a budget for operational expenses."

Greg looked down, slightly embarrassed. But in his experience, bloodstains never came out of a white shirt properly, and it might make Angie a bit less unhappy if _she_ didn't have to go shopping for a replacement.

"That's from Marks and Spencer, isn't it?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah," Greg replied. Mycroft was the sort of posh bastard who probably had his shirts handmade. No skin off his nose to fork out for this.

"There'll be one somewhere in Croydon, doubtless," Mycroft said, pulling out his phone.

"Probably shut by now."

"Oh, that can be dealt with."

***

"If you stay in the car, that'll be easiest," Mycroft said, once they got to a very closed-looking Marks and Spencer. "I suspect the manager's a little on edge already. White, size sixteen and a half, short sleeve, regular fit?"

"Yeah," Greg replied with surprise. Mycroft promptly walked off, and Greg sat back in his seat, wondering how he'd got himself into this. A few minutes later, Mycroft got back into the car and handed him a package.

"Supposedly non-iron," he said. "Which might make your wife a little happier."

"Who says my wife irons my shirts?" Greg asked grumpily.

"Your shirt's badly ironed; been allowed to dry out too much and then done in a hurry. You don't worry about looking smart; if it was down to you, you wouldn't bother with ironing. Someone else is therefore doing it, who considers it is necessary for you to look your best, but is not capable of ensuring that.  If your wife feels that she _has_ to iron your shirts and yet lacks the ability to do so effectively, of course she is unhappy."

"You know everything, don't you?" Greg said sulkily. "Just like Sherlock."

"We share the same observational ability," Mycroft replied smoothly, and then a wry smile came over his face. "And sometimes the same lack of people skills. I didn't mean to criticize your wife. Ironing a shirt well is by no means a vital component of a marriage." He paused and then said quietly, "I presume you want to go home. Where do you live?"

"Can't you work that out?" Greg joked, and then realised abruptly that Mycroft has taken the suggestion seriously, his brow furrowing in concentration as he gazed at him.

"Outer London rather than inner, given your salary and your wife's probable preference for low-crime areas. South London, rather than north, from some of your speech rhythms. You have one or more teenage daughters, so the schools matter. Sutton, perhaps, or Bromley?"

"Bromley. How the...hell did you know about my daughters?"

There was a hint of triumph in Mycroft's smile this time; Greg was reminded again of Sherlock.

"An incident in the cafe where we met this lunchtime. A gaggle of sixth-form girls came in, looked at the prices and went out again. Most of the customers were affronted, but you were smiling. They reminded you of your own children."

"Cathy's thirteen, going on thirty. Jill's sixteen, wants to be a doctor. And Paul, my eldest, is nineteen and trekking round South America at the moment, on his gap year." Angie had been petrified about Paul going off on his own; Greg reckoned it was no worse than picking up scattered bits of traffic accident victims, which he'd been doing at that age.

"And your wife?"

"Angela. She's a teaching assistant at one of the local primaries." He should say something more about Angie, he thought, but he wasn't sure what. Anything he said might betray him. But then Mycroft could probably already tell from a hundred subtle signs that his marriage was a mess.

"I live on Park Road, Bromley," he said and looked away, out of the tinted windows of the car at the bright lights of Croydon.

He shouldn't let himself get wound up about Angie, he told himself after a bit, made him seem sulky. He looked round and Mycroft was leaning back in his seat, still watching him. Probably trying to deduce yet more of his secrets. Greg felt oddly uncomfortable meeting his gaze now, and he hurriedly turned to stare out of the window again. Why the hell was he feeling so awkward, like he was still a teenager himself? Maybe it was just he wanted to make a good impression on Mycroft, not look like a complete loser in front of a man who practically ran the country.

But could Oberstein really be right? Surely Sherlock would have mentioned it if his brother was so important? Well, maybe not, since they were clearly on bad terms. Greg looked back at Mycroft again, who now had one hand propping up his chin as he stared into the middle distance. Just at that moment he did give off the complacent ruthlessness of a man who could rule the world. But there was something else underneath that. Sometime when Mycroft was talking, a genuine expression came over that mobile face, making him seem human, even attractive. The kind of man you might want to get to know better.

That was a ridiculous thought. It wasn't as if he was likely to see Mycroft, after tonight, even if he was Sherlock's brother. Why would he want to, anyhow?

Mycroft had obviously become conscious of Greg staring at _him_. He turned his head and smiled a slightly forced smile.

"Please excuse me, Greg. I was just making a few mental notes for myself." Then the smile broadened, becoming even more unconvincing, and Mycroft waved a hand regally at him, and added, "By the way, if you want to check that the new shirt fits, please go ahead. The car windows are tinted; no-one will see you."

Greg stared at him and for a moment wondered if he'd misheard. _What the fuck; did he just ask me to undress in front of him_? There was a slight shiftiness in Mycroft's gaze now, and yes, he had said it, hadn't he? As a suggestion from a gay bloke to a man he hardly knew it was a bit...off.

Well, no, as a suggestion from a gay bloke like Mycroft to _him_ , it wasn't quite as off as it ought to be. Greg hadn't felt attracted to another man in years, but there was something weirdly sexy about Mycroft, now he came to think about it. He might be nothing much to look at, but a man with that razor-sharp mind could probably work out in about ten seconds flat exactly what turned you on and how to provide it most efficiently.

Greg realised he was still staring at Mycroft, whose smile looked _brittle_ now, as if was expecting the entire Western hemisphere to collapse in disorder. Or at least that Greg was going to cut up rough about him coming on to him. OK, Greg decided, if him taking his shirt off really would give Mycroft a thrill, might as well do it. Though he suspected that Mycroft wasn't going to be _that_ impressed when he actually saw him topless. One of those things probably best left to the imagination; Mycroft was about twenty years too late for seeing his body at its best.

But as Greg took his seat belt off, pulled his stomach muscles in, and started to undo the buttons, Mycroft's fascinated eyes followed the fingers working their way down the ruined shirt.  And Greg recognised the way that the other man began subtly shifting in his seat, because his own erection was also starting to make his trousers uncomfortable. God, he'd forgotten what it was like when it was another man, hadn't he? No delicate negotiations, just a spike of lust and take your chance. Next move was his, he reckoned.

"If I told you I didn't need to go home right away," he said, "what would you do?"

"Take you somewhere private," Mycroft said, and his posh voice was suddenly roughened. "Don't worry, my driver's very discreet."

This couldn't be happening, Greg thought, even as he slid the shirt off his shoulders. It was getting hot in the car, wasn't it? He wondered if he should suggest Mycroft undressed a bit as well. Took his tie off, at least. He reached out a hand towards the other man, and then the car abruptly stopped and he nearly toppled over.

"There appears to be some kind of blockage," Mycroft said, peering out of the window.

"Probably the Shortlands bridge," Greg said automatically. "Angie hates that junction."

His stomach lurched abruptly. Angie. _His wife_. Who was sitting at home waiting for him, when he was just about to... he looked in horror at Mycroft.

"Angela," he said. "She, I...I can't. You must see that."

"I understand," Mycroft said and Greg could see a mask of control going back in place. "Though if you do want to put the new shirt on?"

Greg pulled the packaging off clumsily, fumbled himself into the new shirt. Yes, it did fit, even though it felt stiff, awkward. Almost as bloody awkward as this situation.

"I'm sorry," he said, not looking up.

"Please don't worry about it," Mycroft said, soothingly. "You should be home fairly soon, once we're past this jam."

"I...I might walk the rest of the way if it's OK," Greg said. "It's a nice evening. Could probably do with the exercise. Might even be quicker. And you need to get on, must have things to do."

"I'll let you out here, then. It's been a pleasure working with you, Greg." For a man who'd been hoping to seduce him in the back of a car, Mycroft sounded alarmingly controlled now, though his eyes still couldn't quite meet Greg's. "I'll make sure the Met knows how co-operative – helpful – you've been on the Phelps case. I think it can be officially closed now. Good night."

Greg climbed out of the traffic-locked car, his ruined shirt in his hand. Twenty minutes or so to walk home. Time enough to get himself straightened out before he saw Angie.

***

"What happened to your shirt?" Angela demanded with a frown, about thirty seconds after he got home.

"I was trying to arrest a suspect, he elbowed me and I got a nose bleed," he said. "Wasn't sure it would wash out, so I bought myself a new one. Do you like it?"

"I hope it wasn't too expensive," she replied promptly. "You know we should be saving up for Paul's university fees.  That is if he ever gets back to go to university. He hasn't e-mailed today, even though he said he would."

"Might not have been able to find an internet cafe," Greg responded soothingly. "Guess they're a bit hit and miss in Argentina."

"Or maybe something's happened to him. I should never have agreed to you letting him go. But then you both think I'm just a silly woman, don't you? And Cathy was being so unhelpful this morning. I've told her again and again that her school skirt is too short, but she _does_ not listen."

A familiar string of complaints followed: Cathy, Jill, a shop assistant being rude, the couple next door playing their music too loudly, the supply teachers at her school who didn't know how to use teaching assistants properly. When had Angie got like this, he found himself wondering again. The _need_ to find grievances, to have someone to blame for the fact she was unhappy. He hated the misery souring her beautiful face so often. Why couldn't she just take things in her stride, not get so uptight?

"And how was your day, apart from your nosebleed?" she asked, and Greg's mouth suddenly went dry. Because today he'd turned a blind eye to the Holmeses committing burglary and then almost had sex with a virtual stranger. God, what he had been thinking of? He could hardly criticise _Angie's_ faults after that.

"Not much excitement otherwise," he said. "Didn't get the suspect, but the case is probably gonna be closed anyhow. Just a petty criminal getting out of his depth." Oberstein hadn't been the only one doing that, he thought.  "Anything on telly tonight?"

"Nothing that appeals to me, but doubtless you and Jill can find something to entertain you," Angela replied. "I was going to go and finish my novel, if that's OK."

"Fine," he said, and wondered if she'd like a cuddle or if suggesting it would just annoy her. Probably best to leave it, he decided. As he wandered into the lounge and greeted Jill, he realised there was something in the pocket of his new shirt. Yet more packaging, he thought, and fished the thing out. Mycroft's business card, like the one he'd shown him in the cafe that afternoon. He must have put it in the shirt before he gave it to Greg. He stared at the phone number on the card.

"You OK, Dad?" Jill asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry, what did you say you wanted to watch?"

"It's an Iranian film," she said. "Got very good reviews."

He sighed and then smiled: Jill always thought he ought to get a bit more cultured. He wondered if that was the kind of thing Mycroft watched. And then he told Jill, "Just gotta go and do something."

He went out to the wheelie bin at the front of the house, tore Mycroft's card to shreds and shoved it in. It didn't matter what Mycroft wanted; he wasn't breaking up his own marriage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets an unexpected proposition from Mycroft.

Greg couldn't help wondering if Mycroft would phone _him_ ; for the next few days, he felt his body tensing every time his mobile rang. But there was nothing. Mycroft had seen sense, obviously.  Which was what Greg wanted. In fact, if it hadn't been for the new shirt, he'd have started to wonder if he'd imagined the whole car ride.

He waited for Sherlock to say something, but he never mentioned his brother. Still, Greg didn't claim to understand how Sherlock's mind worked. Perhaps he was just trying to forget about Mycroft. Perhaps Greg should ask him how to do that. Though as the months went by, Greg found that all he could really remember clearly was Mycroft's smooth voice and grey eyes that could shift abruptly from analysis to desire.

***

Christmas was tough; Paul still abroad and Angela in a particularly unhappy mood. January was worse, when a dead cabinet minister landed Greg with a set of serial suicides, which made no fucking sense. He ended up desperate enough to call in Sherlock, against the wishes of his whole team.

It worked – well, sort of. Sherlock caught the serial killer the following night. And then had him killed. Greg might not quite be letting Sherlock get away with murder, but it was a pretty close run thing. But as he watched Sherlock walk away from the ambulance to meet his "flatmate", Greg had a sudden realisation of who Dr Watson really was. It was hardly a surprise when five minutes later, just as he was wondering how long before they could wrap up for the night, he spotted a tall, elegant figure walking towards him.

What was a surprise was the glamorous brunette smiling at Mycroft as she walked beside him. Mycroft hadn't said _he_ was married, Greg thought, his stomach clenching stupidly, and then told himself not to be ridiculous. You'd hardly drag your wife along to an FE college in the middle of the night to be briefed about a murderous cabbie.

"Can I have a word in private, DI Lestrade?" Mycroft asked, and the glossy woman with him – good legs, Greg couldn't help noticing – smiled again and walked past him to ask DS Donovan something. He looked up at Mycroft. If he was 'Lestrade' again, it was obviously something professional.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, and it came out too belligerently, like Mycroft owed him something.

"A cabinet minister was killed three days ago," Mycroft said smoothly. "I was hoping you could tell me that no more of them were likely to die. Gordon has enough problems as it is."

"We got the serial killer, if that's what you mean. Well, when I say got, he's dead. But it was clearly him who was forcing the victims to kill themselves." He paused and then decided he had to get _something_ straight with Mycroft, at least. "That's why I looked the other way when your bloke shot him."

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft was all suave innocence tonight, and Greg had had enough of that from Sherlock.

"Oh don't be a bloody pain," he protested, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You decided Sherlock needed a bodyguard and brought in Dr 007. I must admit, he had me fooled; he looked pretty harmless. Though I suppose it was a bit of a fucking giveaway when he suddenly wasn't limping any more."

Mycroft was smiling now, the patronising smile that Greg had carefully forgotten about:

"Dr Watson isn't an employee of mine, I assure you, Inspector."

"What? Christ, have I just let Sherlock go off with some random bloke with a handgun?" Until about quarter of an hour ago, he'd been hoping Dr Watson might be a good influence on Sherlock. But if he was some kind of vigilante, or a criminal...

"Please don't worry," Mycroft replied carefully. "I've had initial checks run on the man. He is an army doctor, as he claims, and – apart from a certain reckless disregard of the laws on firearms – relatively sane. I had nothing to do with him turning up at Baker Street, but I do hope he'll remain there. Sherlock could do with a friend."

"Can't see him knowing what to do with a friend," Greg said. _Bet you're the same_ , he couldn't help adding in his head. His own heartbeat suddenly sounded loud, so why did Mycroft have to be so bloody calm?

"It is difficult for a man in my position to maintain friendships." Mycroft's voice was full of polite regret and it was all suddenly too much on not enough sleep.

"Don't answer things I haven't fucking _said_ ," Greg roared, and then shook his head and said more slowly. "Sorry. I'm tired and I can do without you playing mind games."

"I understand," Mycroft said and he looked down, fumbling with the umbrella he was holding. "And you have every right to believe that I am as deficient in social skills as Sherlock, in my own way. At our previous meeting, my behaviour was undoubtedly ...inappropriate."

_Inappropriate. Not 'stupid' or' wrong', nothing about the sudden overwhelming desire to grab what you wanted. But the bland jargon of a bureaucrat, putting the whole thing neatly back in a box._

"That's one way of putting it," Greg muttered. He didn't want there to be anything more, of course he didn't. It would be so much bloody simpler if they could both pretend nothing had happened. "Just a rush of blood to the" – his tired brain finally caught up with his mouth – "head."

 He could feel himself blushing and hoped it was too dark for Mycroft to notice. Why the hell could the man reduce him to this? And then Mycroft's eyes finally met his, and there was pain there, not simply embarrassment.

"I should not have done what I did, Greg," Mycroft said quietly. "I was attracted to you from the first time we met and I had my suspicions about your own...history. So I manipulated the situation in the car to try and confirm them. I had not thought through the consequences. If you were not only used to being desired by other men, but also found me desirable."

"Well, now you know," Greg said. He kept his hand in his pockets, so he wasn't tempted to reach out and touch Mycroft. "And you know it's not going to happen. Yeah, I've been with blokes in the past, but not since I've been married."

"That's undoubtedly the right decision, given our positions."

_Our_ positions, Greg thought, and the penny dropped. _Should have thought of that, shouldn't I, that he's with someone as well? Ring on his right hand..._

"My father's ring," Mycroft said, holding up the hand depreciatingly. "I'm sorry, I didn't explain myself clearly. Excessive secrecy is an occupational hazard of my trade. I am not in any kind of relationship currently, nor have I been for some time."

"Then what the fuck are you talking about?" Maybe he was actually asleep and dreaming all this. It might make more sense.

"You've worked with Sherlock on a number of cases – very effectively, I might add – and as you are aware, he and I are on bad terms. He would probably resent _any_ kind of closeness between us. He might refuse to work with you any more."

"Then he can just work with some of the other DIs," Greg replied promptly.

"You can't mean that...Sherlock would be furious..."

"I'm not having him deciding who I can and can't talk to." Greg shook his head, tried to focus, to say something so straightforward that not even a Holmes could find a double meaning in it. "Look, it's not the first time ever I've met someone I fancy. Like my Nan used to tell me, you can't help who you fall for, you can help what you do about it. We're both grown-ups – we're gonna keep our hands off each other and it'll be OK. You don't have to avoid me, if that's what you've been doing. Understand?"

"Completely," Mycroft replied, and there was a hint of relief there. "I should have contacted you as soon as Beth Davenport died, but under the circumstances..."

His voice died away and his face fell again. Then he said tentatively, "But are you saying you're no longer prepared to work with Sherlock?"

"No," Greg replied firmly. "But it _is_ about time he tried working with some of the other teams at the Yard again. And that's got nothing to do with you and me, and everything to do with him learning to grow up."

"Sherlock finds relating to unfamiliar people difficult."

"That's obvious," Greg said. "But at the moment, if I copped a bullet or won the lottery, he'd be left out in the cold. Gregson won't work with him again, and you know what happened to Jonah Gabriel."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"Next time he brings something in to us, he'll get DI Dimmock assigned to him. He's a bright lad, just got promoted. He'll be willing to take a chance on Sherlock if it means solving a big case."

Mycroft frowned.  "I don't know whether Sherlock would be able to...behave."

"Maybe his new flatmate will teach him some manners," Greg said. John Watson had seemed a polite enough bloke, for a trained killer. "Look, we give it a try, and if it doesn't work, it doesn't work. But I think that Sherlock can change, and that it's about time he did. And I _hope_ that whatever happens, you and me can get along OK. Coz I suspect at some point we're gonna need each other's help again, Mycroft."

***

February was cold and rainy and miserable, and Greg didn't care. They were counting down the days now till Paul got back and Angie had been in a good mood for weeks. Not just about that; her school had finally got a couple of their vacancies filled and she reckoned the new teachers were promising.

"Miss Weaver's got a lot of new ideas for teaching phonics _and_ we've finally got a male teacher," she said. "Mr Trench is a keen footballer, as well, so all the boys who want to be Van Persie or whatever his name is can pester _him_ , not the rest of us."

"Sounds good," Greg said. "I'm gonna sort out some leave for when Paul gets back, twist Donovan's arm so she covers for me." Sally's personal life was still a mess, of course, but Greg felt suddenly sorry for her. Yes, it was stupid to get involved with someone married, but even clever people could make stupid mistakes sometimes. Look at Mycroft...

No, he wasn't thinking about Mycroft. Him and Sherlock were someone else's problem for once.

***

A month later, DI Dimmock came into Greg's office and smugly started explaining how the previous night he'd smashed an international smuggling ring. Greg listened, and heard the Sherlock-shaped hole in his story and smiled surreptitiously. It didn't matter if Dimmock was eager to grab the glory; Sherlock had never been interested in fame.

He didn't expect to have Mycroft turn up later that day, wandering in unannounced at the end of Greg's shift and closing the door to his office behind him. Mycroft was trying to project his normal air of control, but there was a tautness about his mouth that made it look an effort.

"I need to talk to you, Greg," he said.

"Down the pub OK?"

"I would prefer that no-one overheard us," Mycroft said quietly. "It's a delicate matter."

_Oh fuck_ , Greg thought, _this is something personal, isn't it?_ Did Mycroft still not realise that he wasn't interested? But his own body was already tensing – nervousness, excitement? – at the thought of Mycroft here at the Yard.

"Sit down then," he said. "But I want to get off soon. Angie's going out to keep-fit tonight, so I've got to ferry the kids around this evening." Probably best to remind Mycroft – remind himself – where his priorities lay.

"It's about the General Shan case," Mycroft said. "The Black Lotus smuggling ring."

Greg let out a breath. Stupid of him to imagine Mycroft might have been thinking about anything else.

"Sherlock sorted that out pretty effectively, didn't he?" he said. "At least, Dimmock didn't say it was him, but I could read between the lines."

"It depends what you mean by effectively," Mycroft's voice was bleak now. "Shan escaped. A young woman who was helping Sherlock was murdered. John Watson and a female friend of his were also nearly killed."

"DI Dimmock said something about a fight in a disused railway tunnel," Greg said, sitting down opposite Mycroft. Trying to act like he was a serious professional and not some complete idiot.

"John and his companion – Dr Sarah Sawyer – were captured by the gang. Sherlock tracked them down, but he was almost too late. He had overlooked a vital clue in a photograph given to him by DI Dimmock. A clue that Dimmock had also overlooked."

"And?"

"If you had been working with Sherlock you might have spotted it," Mycroft said, staring at Greg. "Or Sherlock might have paid more attention when you gave him the evidence, been willing to discuss the photo with you.  An innocent woman would not have come within inches of an extremely unpleasant death. And we might have been able to capture Shan and get valuable information from her."

Lestrade scowled across at him. Surely Mycroft knew that second-guessing cases was a mug's game?

 "Probably wouldn't have made any difference," he said. "Sherlock ignores _me_ half the bloody time, you know that. Dimmock's a bright kid – better educated than I am – they'll get used to each other."

Mycroft was silent now, and then he said thoughtfully, "Sherlock doesn't need someone clever to work with."

_Thanks a bunch_ , Greg thought. "So that's my advantage, is it? That I'm thick?"

"That you're unimpressed by cleverness," Mycroft replied smoothly. "DI Dimmock has been dazzled by Sherlock; he'll be happy now to do whatever he says next time. And I believe he hopes Sherlock might become his _friend_. I don't need that. I need someone who knows when to trust Sherlock. And when not to."

It was hard work with Sherlock, sometimes; was it unfair to want to spread the load a bit? But it didn't bear thinking about if Dimmock was going to follow blindly after Sherlock. He could wreck his career that way almost before he'd got started. Greg looked down at his desk, wondering what he ought to say.

"I have no right to ask you this," Mycroft went on, "but what I would like to arrange with your superiors is that from now on you oversee _all_ Sherlock's liaison with the police. Both here at the Yard and when he works with other forces."

"You think that's necessary?"

"Sherlock's working on bigger and bigger cases. His name has been kept out of the limelight so far, but it may not be forever. Especially since his flatmate fancies himself as a blogger."

"Dr Watson has a blog?" Greg demanded, and automatically picked up a pen to scribble a note to check it. It was _not_ going to go down well with the high-ups if John Watson started talking about Sherlock's cases.

"It's harmless enough stuff. Well, it is by the time my contact at John's ISP has _amended_ it as necessary. It even has a certain inarticulate charm. But if Sherlock's public profile were to become higher–"

"–sooner or later, someone's gonna cut up rough about amateurs helping the police," Greg finished the sentence for him. "I've told my Super that Sherlock's an informant. He must know that he's doing more than that, but he's been prepared to turn a blind eye so far..."  _Oh fuck_ , he thought as it hit him. _That's what this is about, isn't it?_

He glared across at Mycroft, who looked away and shifted slightly in his chair. All this time he'd just been playing Greg for a sucker, hadn't he? Trying to soften him up, pretend he was _interested_ in him, before sliding him this poisoned chalice. 

"That's what you really want me for, isn't it?" Greg demanded. "This isn't about liaison; this is about me being a fall guy. So if – when – Sherlock cocks things up, I take the blame, and the rest of the Met are in the clear."

"I see I need to explain myself," Mycroft said, and his grey eyes finally met Greg's. "After our last talk, I thought you were right, that someone else who could work effectively with Sherlock might be useful insurance.  I investigated Dimmock, as well as a few other officers here at the Yard."

"And?" It was hardly news that Mycroft spied on people. It didn't mean Greg had to like it.

"There was no-one else I could find who I felt I could rely on." It wasn't fair that a devious bastard like Mycroft could look so sincere sometimes. "Do you remember what you told me at our first ever meeting? That when you see a crime, you want to nail the person who did it. However important they might be."

"Yeah, well that was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it?" Greg growled. "Because I didn't arrest Oberstein _or_ you when it came to the crunch."

"Should you have done?"

Greg ticked the points off on his fingers. "No solid evidence to charge Oberstein once you'd walked off with the files he'd received. If Sherlock gets a criminal record, my team are going to be even more unhappy working with him. I could have arrested _you_ for burglary, but it'd have stopped you dealing with Oberstein's contacts. Including sorting out the bastard who was blackmailing Phelps and selling Her Majesty's secrets. I know Phelps' sort. He wouldn't have been prepared to testify, so there'd be nothing doing with that end either."

"So you decided it was better to let me deal with Mr Smith. Balancing justice and pragmatism?"

"More like making a fucking idiot of myself, in the hope you knew what you were doing," Greg said. "That's what I have to do with Sherlock, quite often. For a brilliant detective, he's pretty bloody hazy sometimes on what counts as a crime."

"If anyone in the Metropolitan Police Service can keep Sherlock out of trouble, it's you, Greg," Mycroft replied warmly. "But the other reason I want you in charge of Sherlock is that if the worst does come to the worst, one man is easier to protect than half a dozen."

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft leaned back and folded his arms, back to his normal superior self.

"My department has contingency funds. If you ever need payments from them – for replacement warrant cards, destroyed shirts, legal expenses – they are at your disposal. If for any reason you were unable to complete thirty years of service in order to collect your full pension, we could also cover any shortfall."

"And I'm sure you'll give me a nice send-off if Sherlock gets me killed," Greg added sardonically. "I take it this is danger money, not just a bribe?"

"It's ensuring that you – and your family – aren't put at financial risk from your association with Sherlock. If you do agree to keep on working with him, of course."

Greg shrugged. No choice really, when you came down to it. The Yard _needed_ Sherlock, however much of a pain he was. And it did give him a reason to stay in contact with Mycroft...

_Oh shit_ , he realised. _This is a man who can read my bloody mind and I'm thinking that?_

"I'll do it," he said. "But I'm not...it's because I _need_ Sherlock. For the work, I mean...I mean I'm not planning to be anyone's friend. "

The statement didn't make sense even to him, but Mycroft didn't seem to worry. Instead, he said softly, "Thank you."  Then, fishing in his pocket, he pulled out yet another of his business cards and put it down on the desk. 

"I suggest you don't destroy it this time," he said. "Someone will always be available on this number. Just tell them what you need."

Greg looked down at the card and then up at Mycroft, who was watching him, deducing him. _What if I said I needed you?_   Stupid thing to think, he told himself, shaking his head. He had responsibilities; they both had. But he picked up the card anyway.

"I'll keep it for emergencies," he said, and Mycroft smiled briefly, and then got up without a word and left Greg's office.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has Mycroft's number, but what will it take to make him phone it?

The first time Greg phoned Mycroft was the day after the bomb squad got called to a swimming pool in east London. They found a bomb jacket there like the ones they'd been defusing recently, but no-one inside it. The pips bomber – Moriarty – had not quite struck again.

When Greg's furious texts finally got Sherlock to turn up at the Yard, John wasn't with him. Greg strongly suspected that meant Sherlock was planning some serious lying and didn't want a man with John's transparent face by his side when he did so.

"I haven't had any more phone calls from Moriarty," Sherlock said blandly. "Probably just lost interest, found some other game to play."

"He was counting down the Greenwich pips and there's still one left," Greg protested.

"Innumerate as well as destructive?" There was something slightly forced about Sherlock's quips today, not his usual reckless indifference about good taste. Greg scowled and wondered how far he could push Sherlock; he couldn't risk him going off in a strop if the bomber was still around. Maybe time to try one of the old tricks. Sometimes if you made enough stupid statements, Sherlock was prepared to tell you something, just to contradict you.

"Why would there be a bomb jacket at the pool if he wasn't going to use it? No sign of it being Moriarty's base, and we didn't find anything else significant there."

There was a momentary gleam in Sherlock's eyes which meant they'd missed some vital piece of evidence at the pool, but all he said was:

"Maybe Moriarty just mislaid it. Never leave your bomb unattended or it may be mistaken for a bag and removed and destroyed."

"Can't you just be helpful?" Greg snapped. He knew he shouldn't be losing his rag, but the last victim had been a _kid_ , and Moriarty had blown up the old woman, and what the fuck was he up to now?

"Surely it's obvious about Moriarty?" Sherlock said. Greg put his head in his hands and didn't say anything, because you weren't supposed to beat up suspects now, let alone your own consultants. There was a long silence and then Sherlock went on:

"I solved his puzzles. Three out of five; four out of five if you count the Connie Prince murder, as I think we should. He wasn't going to win the game, so he's taken his ball and gone home. I'll let you know when I hear from him again, Lestrade, but for now, I have more urgent things to do."

Sherlock was up to something again. Well, if he couldn't get anything from him, there was only one option left. Once Sherlock had gone, Greg pulled out his phone. He had a nasty feeling as he did so that somehow the contents of his trouser pockets had shifted. Shit, he'd probably let Sherlock near enough him to lift something, hadn't he? A quick check didn't turn up anything missing, but that meant nothing. There was something wrong, and it would doubtless come back to bite him sooner or later.

***

An uninterested Sloany-sounding woman on Mycroft's number told him that Mycroft was currently out of the country, so Greg didn't expect him to turn up that afternoon at Scotland Yard, striding into the room and enquiring briskly what the problem was.

"Trying case, I take it?" Mycroft said, looking Greg up and down. "And very disruptive to family life, doubtless."

Mycroft looked tired but calm, buttoned up in his smart suit as usual. Greg abruptly realised that he looked a complete mess. Angie's recent good mood hadn't survived him getting a big case right at the start of the Easter holidays, mucking up all her plans. She'd taken her resentment out on his clothes: his shirt today looked like it had been left crumpled in a ball for a week, and then briefly rolled in mud. And either Angie had also managed to shrink his trousers in the wash or he was putting on weight. He supposed it wasn't surprising what a week surviving on doughnuts and takeaways would do.

Sod it, he told himself, it didn't matter. Mycroft had a job to do and so did he.

"How much have you heard?" he asked. "You lot always want to know about terrorists, don't you? Though I don't know whether this nutter counts or not. His name's Moriarty and he's been strapping bombs onto people and getting Sherlock to solve crimes for him."

It wasn't a terribly coherent summary of the case, he supposed, but Mycroft just nodded and said:

 "We believe we've located the man."

"Thank God!" Greg said, slumping down in his chair. And then reality kicked in hard. If Mycroft had something the Met could actually use, he'd have brought it to him before now.

"Is there _anything_ we can charge him with?" he asked.

"You'd be sued for wrongful arrest if you did so. I assure you, now we know how seriously this young man should be taken, we will be keeping a very close eye on him. But his operational methods make him very hard to connect directly to any particular crime."

"So what's he up to now? Is he...is he gonna be back?"

"I suspect so," Mycroft said, and he smiled a tired smile. "But not, I believe, in the immediate future. His interests seem to be turning overseas. A matter for the Service, rather than the police. So I think for now, it's time for you to take a break. Go home and rest, Greg. Leave Moriarty – and Sherlock – for another day."

***

The second time Greg phoned Mycroft was in the summer, a few hours after his wife had said she was leaving him. 

Well, in theory Angie wasn't leaving him. She was just taking the kids off to France for the summer holidays. Her parents had retired there – he could almost hear his Nan's ghost saying "England not good enough for them?" – and Angie wanted "a proper visit". Six weeks in a village in Provence, sunshine, a swimming pool, and satellite TV so Cathy wouldn't miss her favourite soaps. The last holiday they'd have as a family, she said, before Paul went off to university. And then, the night before her and the kids were due to fly out, she dropped the bombshell.

"You know you always say it's a nightmare trying to arrange leave in the school holidays?" she said as Greg got the suitcases down. He winced, because Personnel were being obstructive, and he still hadn't got confirmation about when he'd be able to join them.

"I think you shouldn't bother coming this time," Angie went on, folding up T-shirts. "Mum and Dad can help entertain Cathy, and the other two will be fine with just me there."

"Are you saying you don't want me to come at all?" he said. "I thought...I mean obviously I can't be there for the whole six weeks, but I still reckon I can manage ten days or so."

Angie had smiled a sweet, nervous smile then, and said, "I just want to have a proper chance to be with Paul, not have him drag you off all the time to go and play sport. And I need some time on my own as well, to think about things."

"What things?" he asked, and it came out hostile, angry. Well, didn't he have a right to be pissed off about this?

"I'm forty-five, Greg," Angie said, in a tight voice, "and Paul's leaving home, and in a few years all three of them will be gone. I need to work out what to do next, think about what _I_ want to do."

Not what _we_ want to do, he noticed. But he could see the warning signs in Angie's face, and he knew if he pushed it, it'd make things worse. They'd get into another of the horrendous arguments they'd been having recently. Maybe it would help things if they had some time apart.

"OK," he said, "if that's what you really want. But if you change your mind, I wouldn't mind coming down.  I like your parents, and I always enjoy a bit of _la belle France_."

The smile Angie gave him then reminded him of why he used to love her, and he thought for a moment he might be making the right decision.

By the evening, it had sunk in properly and he speed-dialled the number he had stored as "M" on his phone. But when the phone was answered by an underling, he put it down. Because was he really bloody paranoid enough to ask someone to run a surveillance operation on his own wife?

***

"What do you reckon?" he asked Sally, the next day, when they were sitting around in his office, not getting anywhere with the backlog of paperwork. "What's Angie up to?"

"You say she's hasn't been over to France for several years," Sally replied thoughtfully. "So it's unlikely she's involved with a local. A stranger would stick out in the village, and she'd hardly want her parents _and_ her kids around if she was having an affair."

"And did I do the right thing?" He knew he wasn't going to get any sensible advice from any of the blokes he knew, but he was bit short on women to ask about Angie. And Sally might be fairly crap at relationships, but at least she was fairly crap in a different way from him.

"If she was saying don't go, then don't go. Nothing pisses me off more than a bloke who doesn't pay attention to what I say."

"But why doesn't she want me there? And is she actually gonna come back at the end of the holidays?" Greg said.

"You really think she's planning to leave you? I didn't think it was that bad," Sally said. "I thought it was just the ordinary bit-fed-up-with-marriage stuff."

"I don't know," Greg said, staring at a print-out of performance indicators and wondering if he could go and staple it to someone's head. "I don't know what she's thinking. I dunno what's happening any more."

"If you two aren't happy together..." Sally began.

"That's not the point," Greg said. "I mean I suppose it is, but it's just...I can't imagine Angie not being there. We've been married for twenty years. It's gotta mean something, hasn't it?"

"Maybe she can't imagine what it's like, either," Sally said slowly. And then she paused and said, "You know Dave's wife went away for a week last month?"

_Oh shit. I show you my relationship mess and you show me yours._ He didn't want to hear about what Sally had been getting up to with Anderson.

"Yeah?"

"We thought we could...you know, have some fun together." Sally was looking _through_ Greg now, not at him, and her hands were clenching into fists. "But by five days in, Dave was going crazy. He got drunk and curled up in his bed and wouldn't talk to me, because I wasn't Natalie. He can't stand her half the time when she's around, he cheats on her, and yet he's away from her for a few days and it's like someone's cutting chunks out of him with a blunt knife."

"And that's your idea of fun?"

"No," Sally replied. "It's over. I know I've said that before, but this time I mean it."

"Do you need me to get Anderson reassigned?" Greg said wearily.

"No, it's OK, sir," Sally said, and suddenly she was DS Donovan again, his right-hand woman. "We can work together still, maybe even be friends. Just...not do anything stupid. Anyhow, that's not what I meant. What I meant was maybe if your wife has some time away, she'll realise that she still cares about you. Six weeks is a long time, Greg. Maybe she'll realise she doesn't want to wreck things just because you're going through a bad patch."

"Maybe," he said, and wished that he knew what he actually wanted to happen by September.

***

Greg sat at home on the long summer evenings and waited for being alone to hit him. The way it had apparently hit Anderson. But however much he missed the kids – and God, it was quiet without them around – he couldn't seem to miss Angie the way he should. When she was around, he never knew what to say to her now, anyhow.  The stilted phone-calls he did make to France reminded him of just how little she was interested in his life. And he wasn't sure that lying alone in their double bed was any worse than lying next to a woman who didn't seem to want him touching her any more.

He found himself wondering pointlessly when and where it had all gone wrong, as if he could somehow go back and change things. If Angie hadn't had to give up her job as an assistant stage manager in the West End when Paul was born; if he'd got the promotions he'd gone for. If she hadn't had such a bad time when Cathy was a kid and not sleeping properly.

If he'd only realised back in Weston all those years ago that he didn't have what it took to make Angie happy. He'd still never quite worked out what would. You saw someone and you _knew_ they were the one for you, and somehow a few years down the line you realised that it was all much more difficult than that. 

Well, it was too late now, wasn't it, to try and fix things? Sally had kept her mouth shut, but it was hard to fool a whole bunch of nosy detectives. His colleagues had worked out what was going on about his holiday and made the obvious deduction. No-one had actually come out and asked if his marriage was over, but they were all clearly gearing themselves up to be sympathetic. Little Molly at the morgue had been the most tactless, as usual: telling him earnestly that she was his friend, and if he ever needed help, _any_ kind of help, he knew where to come.

It was oddly refreshing after that to be with Sherlock, who had obviously decided that Greg's failing marriage was old news and completely irrelevant. And John was so busy rushing after Sherlock that he didn't have time to do more than grin sympathetically at Greg and apologise for the latest scrape they'd got themselves into. And then go off and update his blog. John's blog didn't seem like a joke now, something for the Yard to snigger at, for all the post titles were still terrible. It was starting to get Sherlock noticed, just like Mycroft said it might.

Mycroft. Greg found himself thinking about him sometimes as he lay on his own at night. Even wondered if he should try and get in touch. But what did he say? What was there between them after all, other than a fumble in a car a year ago? His marriage was breaking down, he was officially crap at relationships and he wanted to stumble into something else? Stupid even to think of it. Far better to wait and see what was left when the dust settled. When Angie didn't come back.

***

It was raining the day Angie and the kids came back to England, and the flight was late, and there didn't seem to be time for most of the evening to do more than face enquiries about whether they had enough bread and lamentations over the fact that Paul had left his favourite shirt in France. But then at last Angie and Greg were in bed, and he rolled over and looked at her and said, "Well? You said you needed time to think."

She looked sadly at him, her dark eyes suspiciously gleaming and he waited for her to tell him it was over, for the blow to fall at last. But she shook her head, and muttered, "I can't...I can't just run away from all of this, can I? This is where I belong; I have to try and make it work." And then she was crying and he held her to him, and realised after a while that he was crying too. He tried to believe it was from happiness, but he knew it wasn't. There was no easy way out from the mess they were in.

It meant that the next time he saw Mycroft he still had a marriage that wasn't quite dead on his hands. As well as an extremely dead CIA agent.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hasn't been Greg's day, his week, his month or even his year.

When Greg got to the nondescript cafe that the voice on the phone had given him as a rendezvous, he found Mycroft already there, drinking coffee with a pained expression on his face. The moment Greg took a sip of his, he could see why. But he wasn't there for pleasure.

"A man called Miles Archer got killed in London this afternoon," he said. "I want to know what's going on."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked cautiously.

"He's an American, supposed to be a tourist from San Francisco. He got shot at Irene Adler's house in Belgravia."

"Surely she's almost one of the tourist landmarks by now? For a certain breed of tourist." Greg scowled at that, and Mycroft hurriedly went on, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be making jokes about a suspicious death. But I don't quite see why you need me involved."

_If you don't think this matters, why did you agree to meet me_ , Greg wondered, staring at Mycroft till Mycroft's eyes dropped to his coffee.

"Sherlock was at the house at the time," Greg said, "and he reckoned the man was CIA. OK, he was off his face when he told me, but I still trust his judgement on that. And John reckoned he was a professional hitman as well."

"And?" It was amazing how dismissive Mycroft could make the single syllable. So much for all the working together crap, Greg thought, moment it's inconvenient, he just shuts down communication.

"I was told soon after I met you that you practically ran the CIA," he said, and watched Mycroft blink in surprise and then go very still. Greg's nerves felt raw; he was suddenly tempted to yell at the man across the table. Because it was one thing letting the Secret Service cutting corners; it was another bloody thing having the Americans fouling up his patch. "So what are you playing at, Mycroft?"

"This is not my doing, Greg," Mycroft said quietly, and he looked and sounded so _reasonable_ now, no trace of the condescension that was his normal weapon. "I do not control the CIA, but I do usually have some influence on them. Ms Adler has some information of national importance that had to be retrieved and I thought I had an agreement with the Americans that Sherlock would take care of that. Unfortunately, another branch of the Agency decided their intervention was necessary."

"The CIA are having bloody turf wars in London?" Greg demanded. "So what's next?"

"The police investigation will be closed down, of course," Mycroft said. "And we will make a strongly worded complaint to the Americans."

"And things will go back to normal again, will they?" Greg said. "Except I don't know they will. Because there's something bloody funny going on, isn't there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why would the CIA be interested in Irene Adler? I can see her having information of national importance. I mean that's why she's got away with things for so long, isn't it, coz she's got friends in high places to protect her. MPs, a duke or two, probably some of the Vice Squad." The rumours had been going around for five years or more, ever since Irene had set up shop in London. But now probably wasn't the time to start naming names, Greg decided.

"This is more than Irene's usual tricks," he went on instead. "The CIA wouldn't be interested if it was just photos of some high court judge getting spanked, would they? So what's she up to now?"

Mycroft didn't answer; he just looked at Greg with a strange kind of unblinking emptiness in his eyes, as if he was trying to absorb every particle of data from him. The way Sherlock would sometimes look, like he was seeing into your brain, your soul. Greg waited, because maybe Mycroft was going to deduce something amazing. Solve some crime that Greg hadn't even realised had been committed. But then Mycroft frowned and asked:

"Did Sherlock say anything about boomerangs when you were trying to take him home?"

_Should have guessed there'd be cameras somewhere in the area_ , Greg thought.

"Yeah," he replied, "he kept on trying to discuss them with Irene. Mind you, he was also telling her how he'd once solved a case for the Pope; he seemed obsessed with the woman." It had been quite funny, once John had told him that Sherlock wasn't in any danger; the detective had been staggering round like a drunken giraffe, long legs flailing and talking to someone who wasn't actually there. It had taken quite a lot of effort by him and John to get him safely back to 221B in a taxi.

"The hiker in Buckinghamshire who died yesterday was killed by a boomerang. How did Irene Adler know about the case?" Mycroft's voice was sharp.

"Sherlock told her?" _Was it possible about the hiker? Who went round using a boomerang in Buckinghamshire? OK, it might explain what had happened to the weapon, but why..._

"Why that case?" Mycroft demanded and Greg wondered if there was any way of catching up with the conversation. "It's hardly one of his finest achievements. Surely the obvious conclusion is that he was telling Ms Adler about it because she'd asked him?"

"Yeah...maybe." _What was the question again? What was it he was missing?_

"So the question is how she heard about an incident that has not yet been publicly reported. Whose details are still known only to a handful of police officers."

That bit did make some kind of sense. "You think Irene Adler has some kind of contacts that told her about it?"

There was a bleakness in Mycroft's face now. "I'm sure she has. While you are surprisingly well-informed about Ms Adler's activities. Before we go any further, Greg, can you please confirm that the leak was not from your end of the operation?"

It took a few seconds or so for the penny to drop and then it was too late to do what Greg wanted to. Throw his cup of coffee right into the bastard's face. Mycroft was going pale now, as if he'd belatedly realised what he'd just asked Greg. What he was suggesting.

Greg stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. 

"I have _never_ cheated on my wife." He forced the words out. "With you or with anyone else. Go back to your scummy little world, Mycroft, and leave me alone. I'll take the murderers over you, every time."

He didn't wait to see what Mycroft would say, what pathetic excuse would come from those clever lips. He just walked out of the cafe and kept walking.

***

The text came just as he was approaching the bus stop.

_I am truly sorry, Greg. My suggestion was unforgivable. MH_

He mashed the keys together replying:

_To right it was. You don't understand about people, do you? And you never will. GL_

It was true, he thought, as he sent the message. It was all puzzles and manoeuvres to Mycroft in the end, just like it was to Sherlock. If he really understood human nature – if he felt things himself – he'd know why a man married to Angie wouldn't feel the need for "recreational scolding", or whatever it was that Irene Adler had on offer. Mycroft was just another bloody heartless machine, and you'd be a fucking idiot to want to have anything more to do with him than you had to.

His phone pinged again with Mycroft's reply. No doubt now he'd get the treacle, the diplomatic language that Mycroft normally used to conceal the emptiness at the heart of him. But when he read it, all it said was:

_Whatever you think of me, please stay away from Adler and the case. She's involved in something very dangerous and I can't risk you. MH_.

It made no sense. Mycroft had said the case would be closed down, as Greg had been expecting. So what was there to stay away from? And what did Mycroft mean: _I can't risk you_? That had always been the point – that Greg was there to be the fall-guy when Sherlock screwed things up. Why was Mycroft worrying about him now?

He couldn't understand him; he'd never be able to understand what went on in that strange warped mind. Better to leave it; not worry about 'very dangerous' till it came and found him again. Because when you were Sherlock Holmes' unofficial minder, you could be sure it always would.

***

The autumn rushed past and Greg braced himself for Christmas. This year he was gonna crack the sodding thing, make an effort. Show how much his family mattered to him. By mid-November he was getting things into position. Paul had been told that he _was_ coming home for Christmas, even if Greg had to drive halfway across the country to collect him. John and Sarah Sawyer and every medic who owed him a favour were helping Jill prepare for her interviews at medical school, so she stayed calm. He was even near to working out a sufficient bribe to keep Cathy sweet over the holidays.

And he had ten days leave booked at Christmas, because he was owed for all the overtime he'd done in the summer. Christmas Day lunch in London with everyone pulling their weight on the cooking, Boxing Day go down to Angie's sister in Dorset, fancy restaurant down there booked for two on New Year's Eve. He'd had major drug busts that had taken less organisation, but that didn't matter, as long as he was prepared.

When John asked whether he'd come to Mrs Hudson's party, his immediate response was to refuse.

"Won't you need a break from the family by the evening of the 25th?" John said. "You don't have to, it's just...well I don't know there'll be many people there. And it'll be a bit of washout if it's just Sherlock, me and Jeanette turning up."

"Jeanette?"

"You know I said I had a date with an art teacher last month? It worked out really well, so, I thought this was a chance for her to meet some of my friends, see what it is we do..." John's voice died away. He surely knew that the right time to let your girlfriend meet Sherlock was _never_ , Greg thought, but yeah, John could probably do with some diluting of Sherlock, couldn't he?

"Mrs Hudson's done a lot of cooking already. You know she makes really good mince pies," John went on, and Greg couldn't suddenly help feeling that it did sound more fun than an evening arguing with the family about which film to watch on the telly.

"I'll have to see what Angie thinks about me buggering off at that point, so no promises," he said. John smiled gratefully at him, and then a thought struck Greg.

"Will Mycroft be there?" he asked. Bit awkward if he was.

"God, no," John replied. "Sherlock's uncomfortable enough about the party as it is. I don't need Big Brother wrecking the mood." He paused and then asked, with a slightly puzzled air. "Were you hoping to see Mycroft?"

"I'm staying clear of him," Greg replied promptly, and then he smiled at John and said, "You think Sherlock's tactless? The last time I saw Mycroft he asked if I'd slept with Irene Adler."

John's mouth gaped, and then he started giggling. "Irene did say she liked detectives, but ...how the hell did Mycroft think up that one? They're just hopeless, aren't they, the Holmeses, no clue about what ordinary people feel." And then he stilled and added quietly. "I suppose it's because they've never been in love. It'd be quite funny, really, if they did ever fall for anyone; they might finally understand what it's like for the rest of us."

_But what if they fell in love and didn't think to mention it?_ Surely that couldn't have been why Mycroft asked about Irene Adler: that he was jealous? Why Sherlock, who'd never needed any friends, now couldn't manage without John at his side? Greg didn't know what to say to John; he wasn't sure there was anything he could say. So he just smiled a bit more, and promised that he'd see what he could do about the party.

***

As soon as he met Jeanette, Greg decided that she was the weakest link. It wouldn't be a proper evening at 221B unless at least one person stormed off in frustration, and there was something brittle about Jeanette that suggested it was going to be her.  Why the hell had he decided to come, he wondered. _Because you've had enough of Angie for today_ , his guilty conscience replied.

Christmas had gone smoothly enough at home so far, but then things had been quieter anyhow, since the summer holidays. Angie and him didn't quarrel any more and she didn't complain about her life. No problem about Greg coming to the Baker Street party, which he had thought might wind her up. Angie seemed calmer somehow; just drifting round in her own world and barely seeming to notice him. She hadn't even been all over Paul, back from uni. No trace of her normal worrying about _him_ , trying to make sure he was eating properly, that he was being looked after.

He wasn't going to sit here and think about Angie. He was going to listen to Sherlock play the violin and eat too many mince-pies and get just tipsy enough to tell Mrs Hudson embarrassing stories about life in the Met. He'd have to be a bit careful, though, he realised, when he caught himself looking rather too hard at Molly Hooper, who turned out to have a surprisingly sexy body when it wasn't concealed by her lab coat.

But Molly didn't seem to mind him gawping at her, and she smiled at him and said warmly:

"I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas."

He couldn't help grinning back at her, but he knew he ought to make it clear where he stood, after the summer holiday fiasco.

"That's first thing in the morning. Me and the wife – we’re back together. It’s all sorted."

"No," said Sherlock, "she's sleeping with a PE teacher."

***

It was like the time fifteen years ago that Greg had been stabbed; he'd looked down and there was blood coming out of his side, but he couldn't understand why. It hadn't hurt to start with; it had just been _strange_.

_Angie doesn't know any PE teachers_ , he found himself thinking. _I suppose the nearest thing they have at her school is Mr Trench_. His thoughts suddenly clicked into focus. Mr Trench, whom Angie had been so pleased to have join the staff, because it meant they had a man at last. Was that the only reason she'd been happier in the spring?

Sherlock was starting on a verbal dissection of Molly now, so Greg grabbed a drink and offered it to him, hoping it'd shut him up. How had Sherlock known? Maybe he was wrong; he didn't always get things right. Angie had gone off to France in the summer; she surely hadn't been with Trench then? And then he heard Sally's voice in his head:

_Maybe if your wife has some time away, she'll realise that she still cares. Six weeks is a long time._ Another scene came into his head. Angie crying when she got back and saying: _This is where I belong; I have to try and make it work_. It hadn't been her trying to decide whether she could do without Greg, had it? She'd made up her mind about him long ago. It'd been whether she could break it off with sodding Mr Trench, and she hadn't been able to. That was why she was going round in a dream all the time; the dream of a world where she wasn't married, didn't have a family, just her and her lover together forever.

Perhaps he was just being bloody paranoid, he thought; he should pretend everything was fine, stay at the party and get completely rat-arsed. He'd wake up tomorrow and realise that there was a much better explanation for Angie's behaviour. But Sherlock had obviously decided that he hadn't wrecked the party enough yet, and gone off to phone Mycroft and hassle him about something. You didn't need to be a detective genius to realise that this evening wasn't going to end well, and Greg decided he couldn't face other people's misery as well as his own. He muttered an apology to Mrs Hudson and headed out into the cold.

***

Angie spend the night weeping and apologising for what had happened, and Greg sat there and patiently listened to her like she was some witness whose statement he had to take. She took the kids down to Dorset on her own on Boxing Day and Greg went back to the Yard. Well, he wasn't the only one having a lousy Christmas, he decided. Irene Adler had died in suspicious circumstances the previous night and they were dumping the case on Dimmock. Fine by him, it wasn't like he was short of things to do.

He slogged away clearing up his paperwork, and waited for the break-up to hurt, but it didn't seem to, not the way it should. Nothing seemed to matter any more. Sherlock threw a burglar out of the window at 221B on New Year's Eve and Greg just shrugged and decided to file a report that there was insufficient evidence to bring charges against _anyone_.

"How did you know about my wife having an affair?" he asked Sherlock, after the ambulance had gone.

"Surely it was obvious?" Sherlock said. "You know my methods by now."

"How did you know it was a PE teacher she was involved with?" Greg went on. Get the thing clear in his mind and then perhaps he could move on. "You've never met Angie, so that can't have been obvious. Oh, Christ, tell me Mycroft's not watching me?"

"Mycroft's not watching you," Sherlock replied, and then with a sideways glance at him, added, "and you're not sure whether that's a relief or a disappointment, are you? I found a piece of paper in your pockets one day: a lesson plan for key stage 2 gymnastics. There were seven possible explanations for why you were wearing someone else's trousers, but only one of those was likely."

"And I didn't spot that. Didn't spot anything."

"Of course you did; your reasoning skills may be hopeless, but your instincts can be surprisingly effective. But your conscious mind wouldn't admit what your senses had told you. You saw but you refused to observe." Sherlock stopped and then added: "If I were to say you're better off without her, would I be needing an ambulance as well?"

"You almost sound as if you care," Greg said, and God, wasn't that a stupid comment to make? Sherlock smiled sardonically and said:

"You're useful and I don't want you distracted by personal matters. It's easiest being on your own. And safest."

"You'd better go and check Mrs Hudson's OK," Greg retorted, and then walked away before Sherlock could reply.

***

There was one more thing he had to do, he realised, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. There might be a few particularly dim London teenagers who didn't realise that burgling 221B was a very, very bad idea. But the man who'd been taken to hospital was a burly middle-aged American in a suit. Maybe Sherlock could think of fifteen possible reasons for that. He could only think of one.

He dialled the number stored on his mobile and as soon as the phone was answered said, "Got a message for Mycroft Holmes."

"Speaking," said a posh voice he hadn't heard for months and Greg nearly dropped the phone. It wasn't fair that it wasn't an underling this time, and that his brain had suddenly seized up.  He gulped and said:

"Sherlock half-killed a burglar today. I think the CIA goons are back in town. I've cleared up the mess so far, but you need to sort things out."

He ground to a halt. There was probably more he ought to say, but he didn't know where to start. Mycroft was smoothly thanking him for letting him know, making promises about dealing with the Americans, avoiding diplomatic incidents. Greg listened in silence, the words washing over him. Until Mycroft's voice, suddenly sharp, added:

"Are you still there, Greg? Are you all right? I've been worrying about you–"

Greg's thumb hit the "end call" button almost before he could think. Because otherwise he would find himself asking: _Have you been watching me?_  Sherlock was right, he thought, as he stared down at the phone. He really didn't want to know the answer to that one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finds out what's happened to Irene Adler. And to Jim Moriarty.

The divorce finally came through in May and Greg spent the night with John at 221B. Though the whole thing was marginally less disreputable than that made it sound.

He'd gone round to Baker Street because they knew better than to try and cheer him up. He didn't want positive thinking tonight, he wanted to wallow in his misery.  It was easier being with a bloke who couldn't get a girlfriend any more because of the world's most tactless flatmate (plus said flatmate) than with smug couples – or enthusiasts for internet dating – oozing sympathy.

As it turned out, Sherlock wasn't there, but John was happy to share a number of beers with him.

"So where is Sherlock?" Greg asked after a while.

"I don't know," John said unhappily. "He said he was going to the Highlands, to the Isle of Uffa, but he took his passport and not me."

"Might have needed the passport as ID for a flight up there," Greg said. "Any texts from him?"

"No. he's probably OK, but you know Sherlock. You think he's finally worked out it makes sense to have someone with him as back-up and then he just wanders off into danger on his own again. God, sometimes it's like having the world's brainiest toddler on your hands."

"Worse, surely," Greg replied. "At least you can put your gun out of a toddler's reach." He suddenly remembered he wasn't supposed to know about John's handgun. Probably didn't matter, he thought, taking another swig from his bottle.

***

"I wish I wasn't so crap at relationships," Greg said a bit later, and realised he shouldn't have had the last beer.

"You're not," John said, rather muzzily. "You were married for twenty years. That's a real achievement. Not many people manage that. I mean look at me. Longest I've ever been with someone has been five years and half of that I was away in another country. And the last date I went on, I got dumped after five minutes."

"Really?" Greg asked, knowing he shouldn't be curious. But John was obviously getting to the stage where he was blissfully immune to embarrassment.

"I got to the restaurant – on time – and Tina gave me a kiss. And then she noticed I had a bitemark on my neck and I said Sherlock had a case involving vampires and he couldn't really bite his own neck to test his theories, could he, and, and it just went downhill from there..."

Greg laughed, and then remembered his own situation. "You know what?" he said. "The more I hear about other people's dates the less I want to go on one myself. Molly at Barts keeps on suggesting I try internet dating, sends me links. She even found a website for people who want to date someone in the emergency services."

"You're kidding me."

"No. Only the thing is, I hated going on dates even twenty-five years ago, when my hair wasn't grey. It's..." – Greg waved his hands around, trying to think how to explain – "it's so planned. You arrange to meet, and you're trying to work out how to impress them and what you say and don't say, and if you're wearing the right clothes, and whether to kiss them or not and all that stuff. And then if it doesn't work out you have to do it all over again with someone else."

"And you don't like that?"

"It's not...I don't work like that. For me it's best when you meet someone just casually, down the pub or in the street and you look at them, and they look at you, and you _know_. You just know there's a connection. And sometimes you don't do anything, and sometimes ten minutes later you're pulling his jeans down in an alley," – _oh shit, he shouldn't have said that, should he?_ – "and sometimes you end up marrying them."

John was nodding at him, glassy-eyed. Either he'd hadn't registered what Greg had let slip or he was completely unfazed by it. "That sounds more fun than filling in tick-boxes on a form, saying you want to meet a non-smoker aged 25-35 who likes going for walks and meals out. And they never have a box to say 'I don't mind being kidnapped occasionally'."

"Yeah, but it's not gonna happen, is it? I'm not gonna meet someone like that. Not now."

"Don't see why not," John said. "You're still bloody good-looking. I mean if I was gay – which I'm not – I might fall for you, so I don't see why someone else shouldn't." He paused and then added. "You know it's funny about that, isn't it? How it just happens sometimes. Irene Adler says she's gay, but she fell in love with Sherlock."

"She has a funny way of showing it," Greg says. "Does she always drug and beat up men she's in love with?" He shook his head. There was something wrong with this conversation, wasn't there? Oh, he knew what it was.  Because he was a _detective_.

"Irene Adler's supposed to be dead," he told John firmly. "So why are you talking about her like she's still alive?"

"Why are you?" John replied, squinting at him in concentration. "Because you're using the present tense as well, aren't you?"

"Coz she is still alive, isn't she?" It was another of those deductions that some bit of Greg's mind had made long ago and the rest of him had somehow never quite registered. "Dimmock got landed with solving her murder, and he's got nowhere with it. So I bet he came to Sherlock a couple of months ago and asked for help and Sherlock must have said 'No'. Only Sherlock would never say 'No' to solving Irene Adler's murder unless he knew she wasn't dead. That makes sense, doesn't it?"

John nodded again vaguely.

"So what did she do?" Greg asked.

"You don't wanna know," John slurred.

"Course I don't want to know. But I probably need to know, don't I? What she's up to?"

"She's on the run."

"CIA after her?" That was why Mycroft had told him to stay away from Irene, wasn't it? He'd known there would be something more.

"Everyone is," John said. "She tricked Sherlock into helping her and apparently damn near brought down Mycroft."

"What happened?" Greg said, trying to sit up, _concentrate_.

"I dunno the details. I wasn't there," John said, and he was flexing his left hand now, the way he did when he got unhappy. "Irene spoiled some big operation of Mycroft's, and I think he was going to have to pay her off as well. Only Sherlock saved the day at the last minute, worked out the password for her camera phone. He was being such a smug bastard about it afterwards. All that mattered to him was he'd beaten her. Irene said she was gonna be killed and he just didn't care." He looked abruptly guilty. "God, can you forget all that? I'm probably not supposed to tell anyone."

"I'll keep my trap shut," Greg said. "Except I'd better warn Dimmock, because if Irene Adler gets killed _again_ , he's gonna get dropped into all kinds of shit. And I probably ought to see if Mycroft needs me. Needs me to help him, I mean, to help him with Irene Adler."

"Sounds a good move. Somebody needs to sort those two idiots out. Good job there are some of us around with sense. Do you want another beer, by the way?"

***

Greg couldn't remember afterwards if John had actually asked him to stay for the night, or just decided that it was unrealistic to try and move him from the sofa. In fact, there were a whole lot of things that he couldn't remember too clearly. But from the way John was chugging down painkillers and Lucozade the next morning, he was probably pretty hazy as well. Greg gratefully accepted some paracetamol, but declined the fry-up John was planning.

It was only when he got back to his new flat – thank God he had the whole of the weekend off – that he thought to check his mobile. For some reason, he'd had a text from Mycroft last night. Well, could hardly have been urgent, could it, or he'd have phoned? He opened the message with trembling fingers – the fault of the hangover, he told himself – and read it:

_Dear Greg, I feel for you at this difficult time. But I think keeping our dealings strictly professional might be a better move. MH_

He read it three times to see if it made any kind of sense. Maybe it was one of those messages where you had to read every other word? No, that wasn't why it didn't make sense. It was as if he'd come in halfway through a conversation....

_Oh, fuck._ No, he couldn't. He couldn't possibly have. He would _remember_ if he had. But he knew, even before he checked the Sent messages, that he had done something extraordinarily stupid. And there it was:

_Mycroft heard you had a bad time with Irene. Wanna drink sometime and tell me about it? Greg. PS My divorce just came through_

He hadn't put kisses on it; he hadn't called the man "Mike". Other than that, he could hardly have been more pathetically obvious. Well, he thought, wishing he didn't suddenly feel nauseous again, so much for that illusion.

***

Greg didn't expect to spend part of the summer in the south of France, let alone with his in-laws – ex-in-laws – but it ended up being a better time than he'd feared. Him, Paul and Cathy with Angie's parents in Provence, while Jill stayed in London with Angie and Trench. Kind of definition of what an amicable divorce should be, he thought, even if it meant a bit of grin and bear it. He'd always got on well with Angie's parents and it did mean he finally got to spend more time with the kids. He had swimming races with Paul – Greg always lost, but that was part of the point – and heard all about Cathy's latest plans for fame and glory.

He was supposed to be having three weeks off, though he reckoned he might make ten days at most before the Met panicked about something and called him back in. But he'd had more than a fortnight of sun and swimming and too much good food before an urgent phone call came. Mycroft's voice on the line, apologetic but firm.

"Sherlock is causing havoc at a chemical weapons research establishment in Devon. Is there any possibility that you could come back and keep an eye on him?"

Greg flew back on the first flight he could get that evening, because "Sherlock" and "chemical weapons" was one of the more worrying combinations he'd heard in recent years. Even Paul and Cathy had accepted that as a decent excuse.

He found himself hoping – completely unrealistically – that it would be Mycroft meeting him at the airport for his briefing, but instead it was the glossy brunette supposedly called Anthea. She gave him a car and maps and last of all a Glock pistol.

"You've had firearms training, haven't you?" she said.

"Yeah, but that was years ago. I'm not currently authorised to use one."

Anthea looked him up and down, and then smiled a vague smile.

"In that case, come with me," she said. "You're about to get a refresher course."

After a couple of rather fraught hours practice, Anthea decided that Greg probably wasn't a danger to the public now, though he still wasn't entirely convinced.

"I don't like guns," he said. "And why do I need one anyhow?"

"Mr Holmes wants you prepared for anything," Anthea said, smiling at him. "He worries about your safety. Constantly."

***

He was pretty sure that not even Mycroft had foreseen him needing to shoot a hellhound while high on hallucinogenic fog. It was frankly amazing that they ended the case with no more casualties than a dead dog and a blown-up murderer. It was still going to be difficult to explain it all to the Devon police force, though.

But in fact, the local boys turned out to be remarkably helpful, especially once Greg had let slip that he was a West Country lad himself. They had to live with Baskerville, of course, so they were happy to palm off investigating Frankland's death onto the MoD police. That only left the dead dog, and as one of the sergeants explained, if the owner didn't complain, they wouldn't record it as a crime. And as there wasn't an owner...

"But can you have a word with the lads at the Cross Keys, please, DI Lestrade, tell 'em not to do that sort of thing again or they'll upset the RSPCA. And if Mr Knight's in possession of anything he shouldn't have, can you see it he throws it in a bog or something? We don't want any more _accidents_."

Greg had no idea how Henry Knight had got hold of a gun or what had happened to it. Though it was never safe possessing a pistol in Sherlock's vicinity. He sent off a rapid e-mail to Anthea, asking her to check if Baskerville had weapons missing and saying he'd send a full report later. Then he drove very carefully back to the inn, hoping he wasn't going to start seeing things again. Before he turned in for the night, he got the receptionist to put his gun _and_ his phone in their safe. If he did have any more hallucinations, he didn't want to end up shooting someone. Or texting Mycroft.

***

By lunchtime the next day, Greg had sorted out the cordoning off of Dewer's Hollow, given a strictly unofficial briefing to the MoD police, and explained to Henry Knight that making a complaint about Sherlock stealing the handgun he'd been illegally possessing would be a very, very bad move.

"I'll see if I can get the Baskerville lot to tell you more about what Frankland was up to," he said. "But no promises and if you spill the beans to the press, you'll regret it."

He wasn't sure what would happen to the confused looking man now; he'd have to see if Mycroft had any bright ideas for getting him back on his feet. They surely owed him something after what he'd been through. But his own job for now was to get back to London and report on the situation.

He was expecting a meeting in a cafe, as usual, but instead Anthea told him to come to Mycroft's office, a dark little den incongruously located above John Lewis in Oxford Street. _Going up in the world_ , he thought, as he sat there, drinking strong coffee and hearing Anthea explain that Mycroft had been  delayed, but would be along shortly. Half-past five turned into quarter-past six, and Anthea sat behind Mycroft's desk playing with her phone and watching Greg surreptitiously. She was obviously wondering if she could trust him enough to leave him alone in the office. He smiled at her and waited patiently, because he'd spent half a lifetime sitting in unmarked cars on surveillance and this was nothing.

Mycroft turned up eventually, apologising profusely but vaguely for having being delayed. He looked tired, Greg thought, lines on his face that he didn't remember from the last time he'd seen him. Anthea slipped away and Mycroft perched on the edge of his huge mahogany desk and said: "Thank you for all your hard work, Greg. Now if you can fill me in on exactly what happened – and yes, I have already read John's blog post on the subject."

Greg grinned and gave him a rapid rundown of events. Mycroft listened, throwing in occasional questions. It was so much bloody _easier_ briefing him than anyone else, Greg thought. Mycroft could pick up on all the important details immediately, but he didn't feel the need to interrupt you and tell the story himself, the way Sherlock always did. And Sherlock certainly wouldn't haven't smiled at him at the end and said, "You seem to have handled a difficult situation extremely well, Greg."

It wasn't said with Mycroft's normal air of condescension; he seemed genuinely pleased. Greg allowed himself a brief surge of pleasure that he'd been able to do that, uncover the warmth buried deep inside the man. Better get back to business though, he thought.

"So what now?" he said. "The Devon police won't make trouble, but you're gonna have to make some kind of deal with Henry Knight, and I don't know what you do about the Baskerville lot."

"Some fairly drastic reorganisations are certainly called for," Mycroft said, his smile vanishing. "Starting with their security protocols. They've been far too casual, as witness the incident of the luminous rabbit. It's amazing how well-trained professionals can be so irresponsible."

"Yeah, well all of do some pretty unprofessional things sometimes," Greg said. Mycroft looked sharply at him for a moment and then said abruptly:

"You were under considerable stress when you sent that text to me. Please don't let it worry you."

_What the fuck_ , Greg thought, and then remembered, with a lurch of his stomach. It wasn't bloody fair, he thought, staring down at his hands, hoping his tan would hide the blush. Why the hell did Mycroft have to bring that up? He'd been trying to forget about that. It had been months ago, after all.

It had been months ago and yet it was still worrying _Mycroft_. Greg forced himself to look up at him, but the other man's gaze slid away from his scrutiny. Mycroft's hand was gripping onto the edge of the desk a little too tightly and suddenly Greg _knew_. Without thinking, he stood up, took two strides forward, and reached out his hand to tilt Mycroft's face towards his. Mycroft's grey eyes, at last looking into Greg's, were wide and dark, and his cheek was smooth-shaven, soft to Greg's fingers.

"I'm not _stressed_ now," Greg said, and he pressed his mouth against Mycroft's full lips, his fingers going round Mycroft's neck, pulling him into the kiss. A moment's hesitation from Mycroft and then he was responding, his lips opening to Greg's tongue.  Greg's fingers teased the hair at Mycroft's nape, as his tongue flicked against the inside of teeth, and he heard Mycroft's breath speed up.  He rubbed a thumb down the side of Mycroft's jaw, and the response was something suspiciously like a moan. Then Greg's hands reached down, pulling the other man fully upright, away from his desk. Sliding down a smooth, firm back to grab at Mycroft's full arse. Pressing his body against Mycroft's, feeling the heat spreading between them as his groin started an old, familiar motion...

Mycroft's mouth broke away from Greg's lips.

"No," he whispered. "We can't."

Greg's muscles tensed, and then very, very carefully he released Mycroft from his grasp. Backed off, panting, hands in the air and said shakily: "Why not?" Because Mycroft hadn't said _I don't want this_. Just _we can't_ , like it was somehow illegal.

Mycroft drew himself up, smoothing down his jacket, trying to regain an air of dignity.

"You must see it's impossible."

"Why? We both feel this, we've always felt it. It was just because of Angie, but she's gone now. She's found someone she wants, so why the _hell_ can't we have something?"

"Sherlock–" Mycroft began.

"Don't give me that excuse," Greg broke in. "Sherlock may not like me working for you, but he can live with it. I reckon he'll do anything to avoid getting landed with another DI. "

Mycroft was silent and then he swallowed and said slowly:

"There is a man..."

"Oh fuck, no," Greg gasped, his stomach spasming.

"No," Mycroft replied shakily. "I didn't mean...it's not like that, Greg." He ground to a halt again, and Greg watched the man's too fast breathing, feeling the same rhythm pounding inside himself. Then Mycroft began again, in a voice desperately trying to be calm:

"For the last three days there has been a man in a cell in a hidden location in London. James Moriarty, the pips bomber. I have spent today interrogating him."

Greg waited, but Mycroft didn't seem able to say anything more. But he didn't need to, did he? The implications abruptly flooded into the part of Greg's mind that was still vaguely functioning.

"You're torturing him," he said, and his voice sounded weirdly unshocked.

"No," Mycroft shook his head.  "We started with force, of course. Mr Moriarty is rather unpopular with my department after the Coventry fiasco, so a certain amount of _mistreatment_ was allowed, just to check his pain threshold. But you don't get reliable intelligence that way."

Trust that to be why Mycroft thought torture was a bad idea. "So what are you doing to him now?"

"Talking to him," Mycroft said quietly. "It is sometimes possible to build a relationship with a prisoner, to break down their resistance in that way. Deep down they want the chance to open up, reveal themselves as the person they truly are."

Greg nodded. You got that a lot with murderers. "And it's you doing the talking?"

"He ignores the rest of my team," Mycroft said wearily, and his body was sagging again, hands reaching for the desk to prop himself up. "I am Sherlock's brother, however, and so I intrigue him. But it's a slow process."

No wonder he's tired, Greg thought. Interrogations were always hard work, and something this big was a terrifying responsibility.

"If you get anything that links him to the bombings, we can have a go with him," he offered.

"I doubt we will. It will be hard enough to get what _we're_ after in the time available."

"How long have you got?" Greg demanded, his mind lurching back to last year and the hours on the clock ticking away.

"No need to look at your watch," Mycroft said hastily. "It's not a ticking bomb scenario; we have no fixed deadline. It's both less urgent and more complicated than that. We believe that Moriarty is leading a double life."

"He's got some other identity, you mean?"

"Yes, which he's carefully maintained over several years. There are gaps in our tracking of him. Somewhere, we suspect, there is a job, a home – perhaps even a girlfriend or boyfriend – belonging to this Mr X. The connections cannot be so tight that Moriarty's immediate absence would be suspect. But if his friends or colleagues hear nothing from him for a month or two, they will worry. Start to make waves, go to the authorities."

"Missing adults are a low priority for the police," Greg said.

"Perhaps so," Mycroft said, "but there will be some kind of trigger, I feel sure of it. We just don't know when it will be pulled."

He paused, staring into space, and Greg wondered if he was mentally back in a cell, talking to a madman.  Then Mycroft went on:

"I have to decide what we do with him, Greg. Which is why my answer to you is no."

Greg smiled then and watched Mycroft's puzzled look in response. He really wasn't used to dealing with coppers, was he?

"You're in the middle of a big operation and you've got tunnel vision," Greg told him gently. "Been there, done that. Course you can't think straight about your personal life. But you'll crack Moriarty soon and then we'll go out for a drink and you can tell me all about it."

_Better go now_ , he thought, _before either of us say something we'll regret later_.

"Take care," he said. "And let me know when this over. I can wait a bit longer, Mycroft. Don't worry about that."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's plan to win Mycroft is obviously illegal _and_ stupid. Good job he's got some help...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter runs in parallel to the fic that inspired it (Second Skin's [Persuasion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/381560)), and may make more sense if read alongside it.  
> 

One week, two weeks and no message from Mycroft. _I've scared him off, haven't I_ , Greg told himself. And then in the middle of October, the text arrived:

_We have now had to let JM go, without obtaining the outcome that either I or your employers were hoping for.  MH_

He wondered if Mycroft suspected his messages were being monitored. Or if he just couldn't bear to say it more directly: they'd got no useful information from Moriarty and he was on the loose again. Last time it had been bombs; what would it be this time? If only they could have shipped him off to Guantanamo instead...

Greg shook his head. You could bend the rules a bit, but not simply break them. Lock one man up without evidence and where would it end? Time to focus on what he could handle. Carefully, he typed out a reply:

_Mycroft, thanks for letting me know. I promised I'd buy you a drink and we'd have a chat afterwards, didn't I? Any pubs or bars you fancy going to? Greg_

He double-checked it for spelling mistakes, because that'd just wind Mycroft up, and then sent it.

***

There was no reply to his text after a couple of days, so maybe e-mail was his next option, if only so he could make it clearer that he wasn't expecting Mycroft to breach the Official Secrets Act.

_ Night at the pub _

_Mycroft,_

_I don't know if you got my text or if it's lurking somewhere in some spook's in-tray. What I was suggesting is that we go out for a drink together. You don't have to talk about what's been going on with JM, but it must have been a stressful time. You need to unwind if you're in jobs like ours or you'll just burn yourself out. So come down to the pub, relax and let's have a conversation for once that isn't about Sherlock or mayhem in London, or Sherlock causing mayhem in London._

_Greg_

***

Still no reply from Mycroft, although it was just possible he was somewhere with a really dodgy internet connection. Only one thing for it; time to make a call.

"Committee for the Standardisation of Export Tariffs," said a familiar woman's voice on the other end of the line. There was only one person he knew who could manage quite that air of polite boredom answering a top secret hotline.

"Anthea, it's Greg Lestrade," he said. "Can I speak to your boss?"

"He's in a meeting. Is it urgent?"

"No, if he can call me back when he's free, that's fine."

"Anything in particular you need to discuss with him?" There was a lazy warmth in Anthea's voice now that suggested either she had hidden cameras trained on him or he was just too damn obvious. Well, no point in trying to hide it.

"I want to ask him out for a date," he said.

"I'll pass your message on," she said, and he could hear his smile. "Good luck, sir."

***

Mycroft didn't return his call, of course. Screwed up that one, hadn't he, Greg told himself, as he sat at his desk and tried to psych himself up to head back to his empty flat. Obviously Mycroft wasn't interested. Time to cut his losses, forget about the man.

Except Mycroft had kissed him bloody enthusiastically for someone who wasn't interested. So what was going on? A phrase of Sherlock's came back to him: _You see but you refuse to observe_. Maybe it was time to use logic for once.

Mycroft was getting his messages, but he wasn't replying. Too embarrassed to give Greg the brush-off? But this was Mycroft Holmes: he wasn't exactly shy at making his views known. And if he really didn't want to talk to him, it'd be easy enough just to bounce Greg's messages back or tell Anthea to refuse his calls. So Mycroft wanted him to keep calling – or at least didn't mind him doing that. But he wasn't prepared to reply.

Well, Mycroft _had_ replied already, hadn't he? Told Greg 'No'. And then texted him personally to tell him about Moriarty, not left it to some underling. He worried about Greg constantly, so Anthea said. But he wasn't prepared to go out for a drink with him. Perhaps he was just concerned about Greg getting drunk again...

They hadn't been drunk in Mycroft's car that time. And Greg had drunk nothing stronger than coffee when he'd started snogging Mycroft and Mycroft's mouth had opened to his...It was fucking difficult thinking logically when you could feel your own cock stirring, he thought, banging his palms on his desk, trying to focus. Well, maybe it was easy for Mycroft...

No. it wasn't easy for Mycroft to ignore what he felt either. No trace of the normal superior air after they'd kissed, no convincing reasons why them getting together would be wrong. For a man who was so clever, he had some pathetic excuses as to why any relationship between them wouldn't work. But maybe he'd had to tell himself for so long it wasn't possible that he'd started to believe it. When it had been obvious, right from the start. Right from the moment he'd asked Greg to take his shirt off, it had been going to happen.

It still was going to happen. He just had to persuade Mycroft of that.

*** 

It was odd, Greg found, keeping on sending texts to someone who never answered. Irene Adler had done that with Sherlock, hadn't she? Flirted _at_ him all last winter. Mind you, look what had happened to her. On the run from half the world's governments and Sherlock smirking at the fact. Never a good idea to fall for a Holmes. But he couldn't help it; he had just been born stupid. And somehow, the longer there was no reply, the more he felt the urge to up the ante. Show Mycroft just how far he was prepared to go.

***

When it dawned on Greg what he needed to do next, he realised it was obviously stupid _and_ illegal. Which meant, he supposed, that what he needed was the help of someone who liked doing stupid and illegal things...

"Where does Mycroft live?" he asked Sherlock the next time he spotted him alone.

"St John's Wood," Sherlock said. "I take it you're planning to stalk him?"

Greg resisted the temptation to swear and instead muttered: "Only harassment if I'm causing alarm or distress. Do you reckon Mycroft gets distressed easily?"

Sherlock smiled. "An irresistible force meets an immoveable object. Of course, if you did get yourself arrested, that would focus Mycroft's mind, as well as embarrassing him vastly."

"I just want to talk to him," Greg said, and Sherlock smirked a little more.

"He's not interested in your _conversation_ , Lestrade. You'll find my brother at 13 Circus Road. I'm sure he could do with an extra clown."

***

Think of it as another operation, Greg told himself as he stood in the chilly darkness on the pavement by the fancy iron gates. Basic bit of information gathering. He was pretty sure there was someone watching _him_ , as well; he couldn't imagine Mycroft's house wouldn't be well-guarded. If he had made a mistake about Mycroft's interest, things could get extremely awkward.

The street was quiet; it was easy to spot the posh black car approaching. He'd made no attempt to disguise himself and he stared blatantly into the car as it turned into the driveway, through the opening gates. He only caught a glimpse of the passenger in the back seat through the tinted windows, but that was enough. He'd recognise Mycroft's profile anywhere.

Greg checked his watch: 8.14 pm. He decided to give it another hour. See what Mycroft's reaction was, or if he was going out again.

At half-past nine, when the rain got heavy, he went home.

***

The weather forecasters said it was a very mild November; it didn't feel like that when he was spending several hours every night standing around doing nothing. Mycroft's routine was surprisingly consistent; almost every night his car came home between eight and nine. And drove straight past Greg, standing by the gates.

If Mycroft did want him to go away, he could easily ensure it. Presumably he was content to have Greg spending his free time like this. And Mycroft's neighbours seemed pleased – if slightly confused – to have their own DI on the beat. Several were now prone to bring him flasks of coffee and enthusiastic reports about suspected drug barons living in the area. He could keep this up for as long as he wanted. He just wasn't sure any more that it would make any difference. What he was trying to achieve.

But he couldn't give in. There was no way back now simply to working with Mycroft again. This might be all Greg could ever expect to see of him: the profile of the man as he stared ahead, ignoring the watcher outside. Stubbornness? Indifference? Greg wished he could somehow understand what was going on in the other man's mind.

***

December. He should probably put new thermal underwear on his Christmas list, Greg decided, because soon or later it would turn really cold. Or maybe ask for a three-week holiday in the Seychelles. He should get away, find someone else, not keeping pining after Mycroft. He was late getting to his position that night, the crowds of Christmas shoppers already increasing congestion. He hoped he hadn't missed the car, though it was Wednesday and Mycroft was often back later then. But maybe it was time to give up, admit this was never going to happen...

His phone buzzed: a text from Sherlock. He was used to that by now, almost welcomed the additional torment of Sherlock's sarcastic comments. _Someone_ was noticing what he was doing, someone cared. Just not the right brother.

But tonight the text was different:

_At the left-hand side of the front wall some of the bricks are damaged. A burglar might be able to climb in. S_

He went to check and sure enough, yes, he could see now where an agile crook might be able to scale the thing – it wasn't _that_ high. But there'd doubtless be further security systems inside the property. Mycroft was hardly in danger...

Oh. He really was an idiot, wasn't he? He looked dubiously up at the wall. There was a big difference between him and a nippy twenty year-old – or even Sherlock himself – but he supposed it was possible...

It was easier than he expected, and he found himself wondering exactly who had _damaged_ the bricks. Though of course, the bastard who had done so was just a couple of inches taller than him, so there was one very dicey bit. He wasn't sure his trousers were ever going to be the same again. And he was going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do if he got arrested at this point. Security lights in the garden, but no obvious alarm – or trip wires or ferocious dogs. Not even any hallucinogenic fog. This was starting to look _easy_. Till he got to the front door of the house and saw what he should have expected: entry controlled by a keypad.

He had a torch in his pocket; he fished it out and did a quick sweep round the back of the house. No obvious weaknesses and if he smashed anything getting in he could be in even deeper trouble. Time to use his brain. Or rather, someone else's. He wouldn't get anywhere with a straight question. But Sherlock loved games. _So let's see who he wants to torment more, me or Mycroft?_

It took a while to work out how to word the text, straining his ears meanwhile to hear the approaching car. Perhaps he could just wait here by the front door? Would Mycroft talk to him or might he simply refuse to get out of the car? Maybe even have his driver drive him away again, avoid the problem one more time? No, he needed to get in, to confront Mycroft once and for all. He sent off the message to Sherlock, hoping it would lure him in:

_So does Mycroft use his measurements as his security code like Irene Adler? Greg_

Irene Adler and codewords. There was something more, something that he'd been told about that case, that was nagging at the back of his mind. She'd used some pun, hadn't she, that Sherlock had spotted in the end? He could remember John, rather the worst for wear, telling him about that on the night of his divorce...

No, wrong memory. Mycroft's keypad didn't have letters on, just numbers. And it wasn't John's slurred voice that he was hearing in his head, but Sherlock's. But when had he seen Sherlock drunk? Not for years, surely?

Not drunk, but doped. The day Sherlock had broken into Irene's safe, not her phone. There'd been the stuff about her measurements, but there'd been something more he'd been raving on about in the taxi. Skin...oil...gloves.

Of course, and he should have remembered that one. Not the first time he'd been told that by Sherlock. The most used key on a keypad was probably the first number of the code sequence. He went back and peered at the thing closely, glad he had the torch to hand. Most used key was the number three, quite a lot of use on the zero and six as well, less on the others. Well, that got him...not much further, in practical terms.

His phone buzzed; a reply from Sherlock:

_If Mycroft used his measurements, he'd have to change his code every few weeks, depending on the diet. But you're right that it's six digits. S_

He texted back:

_And the first number's 3 isn't it? So how do I work out the other ones? Greg_

The response was immediate:

_Mycroft's mind is historical rather than mathematical. He's also very predictable and poor at choosing passwords. S_

Why can't he be helpful, Greg wondered, and then remembered that by Sherlock's standards he had been. OK, time for a bit more logic. Six digit number: not so easy to remember a random one if you didn't have a memory like Sherlock's. Someone's phone number, maybe? But why had Sherlock said that thing about history?

Six figures and the first one was three: could be a date. And if Mycroft was poor at choosing passwords, something quite obvious? Though surely he'd know better than to choose his own date of birth? And it couldn't be Sherlock's – his birthday was in early January. He was looking for something that happened on the 30th or 31st of the month, wasn't he?

He stopped. It couldn't be, surely? But why else hadn't he been picked up by some kind of security by now? Unless no-one worried about _him_ being there. He reached out and slowly, carefully, typed into the keypad 30. Then 06 and 63. His own date of birth.

He heard the click and the front door opened to his touch. Inside it looked very fancy: marble and chandeliers. He walked in, closed the door behind him. He had broken into Mycroft's house; there was no going back.

He checked the house rapidly, the way he would if this had been a raid. If there were other people here, he wanted to know about it _now_. But nothing; no sign of live-in staff or Mycroft's aged mother. Or a former partner lurking in the attic. A house full of books and music and pictures that reflected just one man's tastes.

Greg looked at his watch. 8.43. Mycroft might be home soon now. If he did come home, if tonight wasn't the night when he flew out to Bucharest or Cape Town or wherever his friends – his contacts – lived. There was a fancy bench in the hall, but it looked uncomfortable. He sat on the stairs instead, his coat dumped in front of him, because it was warm in the house.

_What the hell am I doing here?_ He knew that, of course. This was what Mycroft wanted, but couldn't admit to. What was it Mycroft had said once about breaking down someone's resistance by talking to them? That deep down people wanted to open up to someone...

The problem was, he was nothing like as eloquent as Mycroft. Talk to him and he'd always outwit you. So it was tempting to skip the words, go straight for the physical stuff. But then that might scare the other man off. Didn't leave many options, did it? Except to hope that Mycroft did want him enough to take the risk, to reach out to _him_.

He heard the door open and Mycroft come in. He looked weary and after he'd hung up his coat he slumped on the fancy bench in the hall, head in his hands. _Shit_ , Greg thought, _he's had another operation go tits up. He's not going to be in the mood tonight_.

He sat silently and watched the man. Odd how he wanted to comfort him, to go over there and make things better. It wasn't just desire he felt for Mycroft, never had been. But what the hell did he say? What did he do when, sooner or later, Mycroft opened his eyes again, looked up, saw him on the stairs? The way he was doing right _now_.

A moment of shock from Mycroft, and Greg smiled and beckoned him over. To his surprise, Mycroft came towards him, slowly and quietly, like he was in some kind of dream. And then he stopped a few feet away and asked:

"What are you doing here, Inspector?"

Greg sighed. Back to the barriers that Mycroft always placed round himself. Try and break them down and he'd just pull away. But perhaps a bit of a push was still worth trying. He stood up, carefully not moving any closer to Mycroft.

"Waiting for you," he said. "I'm waiting for your answer, Mycroft. You know you're taking a bloody long time."

Mycroft's normal poise was nowhere to be seen tonight, his brow furrowing as he said nervously, "I don't understand. I already gave you my answer." He paused, and then added abruptly, "I said _no_."

Greg smiled at him, shoving his hands in his pockets, so he wasn't tempted to reach out and run a finger down Mycroft's tense jaw-line. He wished he could kiss Mycroft's doubts away, the way he'd tried to at their last meeting. But that hadn't worked, had it? He had to leave Mycroft an exit this time, literally. He stepped back up the stairs, away from the man.

"Oh yes, I remember," he said. "But that's not the answer I want. So, I'm waiting for the right answer. I'm a very patient man. Ask your brother."

_Fuck_ , he thought, as the last bit came out, _I shouldn't have mentioned Sherlock._ But there was no response from Mycroft to the name. There was no response from him at all. He just stood there looking confused, like he'd turned into some kind of statue. Like his huge brain couldn't process all of this.

Better wake up Sleeping Beauty, Greg decided, and going back down the stairs, he kissed Mycroft on the cheek, a brushing touch, just to remind the man that this wasn't a dream. And then he turned his back on Mycroft and walked up the stairs. Time for Mycroft to make his mind up. To decide if he did want to run away yet again. When he got to the landing he turned to face Mycroft again. It was odd looking down at him; he looked terribly vulnerable, just standing alone in that fancy hall. A man with everything...and nothing.

Greg called out to him, his voice echoing in the space:

"It's been a long day, Mycroft. I want you to take your time getting to your answer – as long as it's _yes_ – but I think I'll go and have a little rest while you're thinking. Come on up whenever you're ready. First room on the left is yours?"

He didn't wait to see what would happen, because if he did, _his_ nerve might go. He went into Mycroft's bedroom, all nicely chosen neutrals and a big bed, like a very posh hotel. Pulled off his shoes, lay down on the bed. He suddenly realised he was exhausted. Too many sleepless nights catching up on him, now the adrenaline was starting to wear off.

Tempting just to lie back, to give into sleep. Because in his dreams Mycroft did respond. Broke off from their kiss in the office only to tell Greg that he'd always wanted him. That it didn't matter about Sherlock or Moriarty or the pressures of their jobs. That Greg was what mattered now.

_In his dreams_. If he fell asleep now in Mycroft's bed, he knew what would really happen. He'd wake up and find one of Mycroft's minions bending over him, asking him politely to leave. Telling him that he was an inconvenience for Mr Holmes, who preferred to keep things strictly professional. Mycroft would probably get Anthea to do it...

But the tread he could hear on the stairs wasn't Anthea's. He felt a surge of hope as the door opened and Mycroft walked in. He looked rather nervous, but he had taken his jacket off. From Mycroft that practically counted as foreplay, Greg thought, smiling at him.

Mycroft smiled back and said, in an almost normal voice: "Glad you're finding your way around, Greg. But surely you would be more comfortable with your clothes off?"

"Then why don't you come and help me undress?" Greg said, swinging himself off the bed, and moving towards Mycroft's eagerly lifting hands. "I've been waiting a long time for that."


End file.
